I. IN WHICH THE
TIDE TAKES A
HAND
II. HOW A GIRL
APPEARED OUT OF
THE NIGHT
III. THE IRISH
PRINCE
IV. HOW A
JOURNEY ENDED AT
HOPE
V. WHEREIN WE
SEE CURTIS
GORDON AND
OTHERS
VI. THE DREAMER
VII. THE DREAM
VIII. IN WHICH
WE COME TO OMAR
IX. WHEREIN
GORDON SHOWS HIS
TEETH
X. IN WHICH THE
DOCTOR SHOWS HIS
WIT
XI. THE TWO
SIDES OF ELIZA
VIOLET APPLETON
XII. HOW GORDON
FAILED IN HIS
CUNNING
XIII. WE JOURNEY
TO A PLACE OF
MANY WONDERS
XIV. HOW THE
TRUTH CAME TO
ELIZA
XV. THE BATTLE
OF GORDON'S
CROSSING
XVI. THE FRUIT
OF THE TEMPEST
XVII. HOW THE
PRINCE BECAME A
MAN
XVIII. HOW THE
MAN BECAME A
PRINCE AGAIN
XIX. MISS
APPLETON MAKES A
SACRIFICE
XX. HOW GORDON
CHANGED HIS
ATTACK
XXI. DAN
APPLETON SLIPS
THE LEASH
XXII. HOW THE
HAZARD WAS
PLAYED
XXIII. A NEW
CRISIS
XXIV. GORDON'S
FALL
XXV.
PREPARATIONS
XXVI. THE RACE
XXVII. HOW A
DREAM CAME TRUE

The ship stole through the darkness with extremest caution,
feeling her way past bay and promontory. Around her was none of that
phosphorescent glow which lies above the open ocean, even on the
darkest night, for the mountains ran down to the channel on either
side. In places they overhung, and where they lay upturned against the
dim sky it could be seen that they were mantled with heavy timber. All
day long the NEBRASKA had made her way through an endless succession
of straits and sounds, now squeezing through an inlet so narrow that
the somber spruce trees seemed to be within a short stone's-throw,
again plowing across some open reach where the pulse of the north
Pacific could be felt. Out through the openings to seaward stretched
the restless ocean, on across uncounted leagues, to Saghalien and the
rim of Russia's prison-yard.

Always near at hand was the deep green of the Canadian forests,
denser, darker than a tropic jungle, for this was the land of "plenty
waters." The hillsides were carpeted knee-deep with moss, wet to
saturation. Out of every gulch came a brawling stream whipped to
milk-white frenzy; snow lay heavy upon the higher levels, while now
and then from farther inland peered a glacier, like some dead monster
crushed between the granite peaks. There were villages, too, and
fishing-stations, and mines and quarries. These burst suddenly upon
the view, then slipped past with dreamlike swiftness. Other ships
swung into sight, rushed by, and were swallowed up in the labyrinthine
maze astern.

Those passengers of the Nebraska who had never before traversed
the "Inside Passage" were loud in the praises of its picturesqueness,
while those to whom the route was familiar seemed to find an
ever-fresh fascination in its shifting scenes.

Among the latter was Murray O'Neil. The whole north coast from
Flattery to St. Elias was as well mapped in his mind as the face of
an old friend, yet he was forever discovering new vistas, surprising
panoramas, amazing variations of color and topography. The mysterious
rifts and passageways that opened and closed as if to lure the ship
astray, the trackless confusion of islets, the siren song of the
waterfalls, the silent hills and glaciers and snow-soaked forests—all
appealed to him strongly, for he was at heart a dreamer.

Yet he did not forget that scenery such as this, lovely as it is
by day, may be dangerous at night, for he knew the weakness of steel
hulls. On some sides his experience and business training had made him
sternly practical and prosaic. Ships aroused no manner of enthusiasm
in him except as means to an end. Railroads had no glamour of romance
in his eyes, for, having built a number of them, he had outlived all
poetic notions regarding the "iron horse," and once the rails were
laid he was apt to lose interest in them. Nevertheless, he was almost
poetic in his own quiet way, interweaving practical thoughts with
fanciful visions, and he loved his dreams. He was dreaming now as he
leaned upon the bridge rail of the Nebraska, peering into the gloom
with watchful eyes. From somewhere to port came the occasional
commands of the officer on watch, echoed instantly from the inky
interior of the wheelhouse. Up overside rose the whisper of rushing
waters; from underfoot came the rhythmic beat of the engines far
below. O'Neil shook off his mood and began to wonder idly how long it
would be before Captain Johnny would be ready for his "nightcap."

He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it,
for the two men were boon companions. O'Neil was wont to live in
Johnny's cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to
friendship had come to be a matter of some ceremony.

The ship's master soon appeared from the shadows—a short, trim
man with gray hair.

"Come," he cried, "it's waiting for us."

O'Neil followed into Brennan's luxurious, well-lit quarters, where
on a mahogany sideboard was a tray holding decanter, siphon, and
glasses, together with a bottle of ginger ale. The captain, after he
had mixed a beverage for his passenger, opened the bottle for himself.
They raised their glasses silently.

"Now that you're past the worst of it," remarked O'Neil, "I
suppose you'll turn in. You're getting old for a hard run like this,
Johnny."

O'Neil stretched himself out in one of Brennan's easy-chairs.
"Really," he said, "I don't understand why a ship carries a captain.
Now of what earthly use to the line are you, for instance, except for
your beauty, which, no doubt, has its value with the women? I'll admit
you preside with some grace at the best table in the dining-salon, but
your officers know these channels as well as you do. They could make
the run from Seattle to Juneau with their eyes shut."

"Indeed they could not; and neither could I."

"Oh, well, of course I have no respect for you as a man, having
seen you without your uniform."

The captain grinned in thorough enjoyment of this raillery. "I'll
say nothing at all of my seamanship," he said, relapsing into the
faintest of brogues, "but there's no denying that the master of a
ship has many unpleasant and disgusting duties to perform. He has to
amuse the prominent passengers who can't amuse themselves, for one
thing, and that takes tact and patience. Why, some people make
themselves at home on the bridge, in the chart-room, and even in my
living-quarters, to say nothing of consuming my expensive wines,
liquors, and cigars."

"Meaning me?"

"I'm a brutal seafaring man, and you'll have to make allowances
for my well-known brusqueness. Maybe I did mean you. But I'll say
that next to you Curtis Gordon is the worst grafter I ever saw."

"You don't like Gordon, do you?" O'Neil queried with a change of
tone.

"I do not! He went up with me again this spring, and he had his
widow with him, too."

"His widow?"

"You know who I mean—Mrs. Gerard. They say it's her money he's
using in his schemes. Perhaps it's because of her that I don't like
him."

"Ah-h! I see."

"You don't see, or you wouldn't grin like an ape. I'm a married
man, I'll have you know, and I'm still on good terms with Mrs.
Brennan, thank God. But I don't like men who use women's money, and
that's just what our friend Gordon is doing. What money the widow
didn't put up he's grabbed from the schoolma'ams and servant-girls and
society matrons in the East. What has he got to show them for it?"

"A railroad project, a copper-mine, some coal claims—"

"Bah! A menagerie of wildcats!"

"You can't prove that. What's your reason for distrusting him?"

"Well, for one thing, he knows too much. Why, he knows everything,
he does. Art, literature, politics, law, finance, and draw poker have
no secrets from him. He's been everywhere—and back—twice; he speaks
a dozen different languages. He out-argued me on poultry-raising and I
know more about that than any man living. He can handle a drill or a
coach-and-four; he can tell all about the art of ancient Babylon; and
he beat me playing cribbage, which shows that he ain't on the level.
He's the best- informed man outside of a university, and he drinks tea
of an afternoon—with his legs crossed and the saucer balanced on his
heel. Now, it takes years of hard work for an honest man to make a
success at one thing, but Gordon never failed at anything. I ask you
if a living authority on all the branches of human endeavor and a man
who can beat me at 'crib' doesn't make you suspicious."

"Not at all. I've beaten you myself!"

"I was sick," said Captain Brennan.

"The man is brilliant and well educated and wealthy. It's only
natural that he should excite the jealousy of a weaker intellect."

Johnny opened his lips for an explosion, then changed his mind and
agreed sourly.

"He's got money, all right, and he knows how to spend it. He and
his valet occupied three cabins on this ship. They say his quarters
at Hope are palatial."

"My dear grampus, the mere love of luxury doesn't argue that a
person is dishonest."

"Would you let a hired man help you on with your underclothes?"
demanded the mariner.

"There's nothing criminal about it."

"Humph! Mrs. Gerard is different. She's all class! You don't mind
her having a maid and speaking French when she runs short of English.
Her daughter is like her."

"I haven't seen Miss Gerard."

"If you'd stir about the ship instead of wearing out my Morris
chair you'd have that pleasure. She was on deck all morning." Captain
Brennan fell silent and poked with a stubby forefinger at the ice in
his glass.

"Well, out with it!" said O'Neil after a moment.

"I'd like to know the inside story of Curtis Gordon and this
girl's mother."

"Why bother your head about something that doesn't concern you?"
The speaker rose and began to pace the cabin floor, then, in an
altered tone, inquired, "Tell me, are you going to land me and my
horses at Kyak Bay?"

"That depends on the weather. It's a rotten harbor; you'll have to
swim them ashore."

"Suppose it should be rough?"

"Then we'll go on, and drop you there coming back. I don't want to
be caught on that shore with a southerly wind, and that's the way it
usually blows."

"I don't make the weather at Kyak Bay. Satan himself does that.
Twenty miles offshore it may be calm, and inside it may be blowing a
gale. That's due to the glaciers. Those ice-fields inland and the warm
air from the Japanese Current offshore kick up some funny atmospheric
pranks. It's the worst spot on the coast and we'll lose a ship there
some day. Why, the place isn't properly charted, let alone buoyed."

"That's nothing unusual for this coast."

"True for you. This is all a graveyard of ships and there's been
many a good master's license lost because of half-baked laws from
Washington. Think of a coast like this with almost no lights, no
beacons nor buoys; and yet we're supposed to make time. It's fine in
clear weather, but in the dark we go by guess and by God. I've stood
the run longer than most of the skippers, but—"

Even as Brennan spoke the Nebraska seemed to halt, to jerk
backward under his feet. O'Neil, who was standing, flung out an arm
to steady himself; the empty ginger-ale bottle fell from the sideboard
with a thump. Loose articles hanging against the side walls swung to
and fro; the heavy draperies over Captain Johnny's bed swayed.

Brennan leaped from his chair; his ruddy face was mottled, his
eyes were wide and horror-stricken.

"Damnation!" he gasped. The cabin door crashed open ahead of him
and he was on the bridge, with O'Neil at his heels. They saw the
first officer clinging limply to the rail; from the pilot-house
window came an excited burst of Norwegian, then out of the door
rushed a quartermaster.

Brennan cursed, and met the fellow with a blow which drove him
sprawling back.

The steady, muffled beating of the machinery ceased, the ship
seemed suddenly to lose her life, but it was plain that she was not
aground, for she kept moving through the gloom. From down forward came
excited voices as the crew poured up out of the forecastle.

Brennan leaped to the telegraph and signaled the engine-room. He
was calm now, and his voice was sharp and steady.

"Go below, Mr. James, and find the extent of the damage," he
directed, and a moment later the hull began to throb once more to the
thrust of the propeller. Inside the wheelhouse Swan had recovered from
his panic and repeated the master's orders mechanically.

The second and third officers arrived upon the bridge now,
dressing as they came, and they were followed by the chief engineer.
To them Johnny spoke, his words crackling like the sparks from a
wireless. In an incredibly short time he had the situation in hand and
turned to O'Neil, who had been a silent witness of the scene.

"Glory be!" exclaimed the captain. "Most of our good passengers
are asleep; the jar would scarcely wake them."

"Tell me where and how I can help," Murray offered. His first
thought had been of the possible effect of this catastrophe upon his
plans, for time was pressing. As for danger, he had looked upon it so
often and in so many forms that it had little power to stir him; but a
shipwreck, which would halt his northward rush, was another matter.
Whether the ship sank or floated could make little difference, now
that the damage had been done. She was crippled and would need
assistance. His fellow-passengers, he knew, were safe enough.
Fortunately there were not many of them— a scant two hundred,
perhaps—and if worse came to worst there was room in the life-boats
for all. But the Nebraska had no watertight bulkheads and the plight
of his twenty horses between decks filled him with alarm and pity.
There were no life-boats for those poor dumb animals penned down
yonder in the rushing waters.

Brennan had stepped into the chart-room, but returned in a moment
to say:

"There's no place to beach her this side of Halibut Bay."

"How far is that?"

"Five or six miles."

"You'll—have to beach her?"

"I'm afraid so. She feels queer."

Up from the cabin deck came a handful of men passengers to inquire
what had happened; behind them a woman began calling shrilly for her
husband.

There followed a harrowing wait of several minutes; then James,
the first officer, came to report. He had regained his nerve and
spoke with swift precision.

"She loosened three plates on her port quarter and she's filling
fast."

"How long will she last?" snapped Brennan.

"Not long, sir. Half an hour, perhaps."

The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as
the engine increased its labor. "Get your passengers out and stand by
the boats," lie ordered. "Take it easy and don't alarm the women. Have
them dress warmly, and don't allow any crowding by the men. Mr.
Tomlinson, you hold the steerage gang in check. Take your revolver
with you." He turned to his silent friend, in whose presence he seemed
to feel a cheering sympathy, "I knew it would come sooner or later,
Murray," he said. "But—magnificent mummies! To touch on a clear night
with the sea like glass!" He sighed dolefully. "It'll be tough on my
missus."

O'Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, and
there will be room in the last boat for you. Understand?" Brennan
hesitated, and the other continued, roughly: "No nonsense, now! Don't
make a damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Now what do you want me to do?"

"Keep those dear passengers quiet. I'll run for Halibut Bay, where
there's a sandy beach. If she won't make it I'll turn her into the
rocks, Tell 'em they won't wet a foot if they keep their heads."

"Good! I'll be back to see that you behave yourself." The speaker
laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an
incipient panic. Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors, half-
clad men were rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered forth from
windows, and there was the sound of running feet, of slamming doors,
of shrill, hysterical voices.

O'Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him
shout, hoarsely:

"Everybody out! The ship is sinking!" As he turned away Murray
seized him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the
other's, said harshly:

"If you yell again like that I'll toss you overboard."

"God help us, we're going—"

O'Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own
countenance, ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

"There's no danger. Act like a man and don't start a stampede."

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer tone:

"Very well, sir. I—I'm sorry, sir."

Murray O'Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name
had gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from San
Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he went
among his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained, unruffled,
his presence had its effect. Women ceased their shrilling, men stopped
their senseless questions and listened to his directions with some
comprehension. In a short time the passengers were marshaled upon the
upper deck where the life- boats hung between their davits. Each
little craft was in charge of its allotted crew, the electric lights
continued to burn brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out.
Meanwhile the ship was running a desperate race with the sea, striving
with every ounce of steam in her boilers to find a safe berth for her
mutilated body before the inrush of waters drowned her fires. That
the race was close even the dullest understood, for the Nebraska was
settling forward, and plowed into the night head down, like a thing
maddened with pain. She was becoming unmanageable, too, and O'Neil
thought with pity of that little iron-hearted skipper on the bridge
who was fighting her so furiously.

There was little confusion, little talking upon the upper deck
now; only a child whimpered or a woman sobbed hysterically. But down
forward among the steerage passengers the case was different. These
were mainly Montenegrins, Polacks, or Slavs bound for the construction
camps to the westward, and they surged from side to side like cattle,
requiring Tomlinson's best efforts to keep them from rushing aft.

O'Neil had employed thousands of such men; in fact, many of these
very fellows had cashed his time-checks and knew him by sight. He
went forward among them, and his appearance proved instantly
reassuring. He found his two hostlers, and with their aid he soon
reduced the mob to comparative order.

But in spite of his confident bearing he felt a great uneasiness.
The Nebraska seemed upon the point of diving; he judged she must be
settling very fast, and wondered that the forward tilt did not lift
her propeller out of the water. Fortunately, however, the surface of
the sound was like a polished floor and there were no swells to
submerge her.

Over-side to starboard he could see the dim black outlines of
mountains slipping past, but where lay Halibut Bay or what distance
remained to be covered he could but vaguely guess.

In these circumstances the wait became almost unbearable. The race
seemed hours long, the mites stretched into leagues, and with every
moment of suspense the ship sank lower. The end came unexpectedly.
There was a sudden startled outcry as the Nebraska struck for a second
time that night. She rose slightly, rolled and bumped, grated briefly,
then came to rest.

Captain Brennan shouted from the bridge:

"Fill your life-boats, Mr. James, and lower away carefully."

A cheer rose from the huddled passengers.

The boiler-room was still dry, it seemed, for the incandescent
lights burned without a flicker, even after the grimy oilers and
stokers had come pouring up on deck.

O'Neil climbed to the bridge. "Is this Halibut Bay?" he asked
Captain Johnny.

"It is. But we're piled up on the reef outside. She may hold
fast—I hope so, for there's deep water astern, and if she slips off
she'll go down."

"I'd like to save my horses," said the younger man, wistfully.
Through all the strain of the past half-hour or more his uppermost
thought had been for them. But Brennan had no sympathy for such
sentiments.

"Hell's bells!" he exclaimed. "Don't talk of horses while we've
got women and children aboard." He hastened away to assist in
transferring his passengers.

Instead of following, O'Neil turned and went below. He found that
the water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his
animals were quartered, which showed that the ship had listed
heavily. He judged that she must be much deeper by the head then he
had imagined, and that her nose was crushed in among the rocks. Until
she settled at the stern, therefore, the case was not quite hopeless.

His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a
chorus of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads were
thrust toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked forward,
satin muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their terror. This blind
trust made the man's throat tighten achingly. He loved animals as he
loved children, and above all he cared for horses. He understood them,
he spoke their language as nearly as any human can be said to do so.
Quivering muscles relaxed beneath his soothing palm; he called them by
name and they answered with gentle twitching lips against his cheek.
Some of them even began to eat and switch their tails contentedly.

He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the
square iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But he
found that it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure outside, and
after a few moments' work in water above his knees he climbed to the
starboard side. Here the entrance was obstructed by a huge pile of
baled hay and grain in sacks. It would be no easy task to clear it
away, and he fell to work with desperate energy, for the ship was
slowly changing her level. Her stern, which had been riding high, was
filling; the sea stole in upon him silently. It crept up toward him
until the horses, stabled on the lower side, were belly-deep in it.
Their distress communicated itself to the others. O'Neil knew that his
position might prove perilous if the hulk should slip backward off the
reef, yet he continued to toil, hurling heavy sacks behind him,
bundling awkward bales out of the way, until his hands were bleeding
and his muscles ached. He was perspiring furiously; the commotion
around him was horrible. Then abruptly the lights went out, leaving
him in utter blackness; the last fading yellow gleam was photographed
briefly upon his retina.

Tears mingled with the sweat that drained down his cheeks as he
felt his way slowly out of the place, splashing, stumbling, groping
uncertainly. A horse screamed in a loud, horribly human note, and he
shuddered. He was sobbing curses as he emerged into the cool open air
on the forward deck.

His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see
something of his surroundings. He noted numerous lights out on the
placid bosom of the bay, evidently lanterns on the life- boats, and he
heard distant voices. He swept the moisture from his face; then with a
start he realized his situation. He listened intently; his eyes roved
back along the boat-deck; there was no doubt about it—the ship was
deserted. Stepping to the rail, he observed how low the Nebraska lay
and also that her bow was higher than her stern. From somewhere
beneath his feet came a muffled grinding and a movement which told him
that the ship was seeking a more comfortable berth. He recalled
stories of explosions and of the boiling eddies which sometimes
accompany sinking hulls. Turning, he scrambled up to the cabin-deck
and ran swiftly toward his stateroom.

O'Neil felt for the little bracket-lamp on the wall of his
stateroom and lit it. By its light he dragged a life-preserver from
the rack overhead and slipped the tapes about his shoulders,
reflecting that Alaskan waters are disagreeably cold. Then he opened
his traveling-bags and dumped their contents upon the white
counterpane of his berth, selecting out of the confusion certain
documents and trinkets. The latter he thrust into his pockets as he
found them, the former he wrapped in handkerchiefs before stowing them
away. The ship had listed now so that it was difficult to maintain a
footing; the lamp hung at a grotesque angle and certain articles had
become dislodged from their resting-places. From outside came the
gentle lapping of waters, a gurgling and hissing as of air escaping
through the decks. He could feel the ship strain. He acknowledged that
it was not pleasant thus to be left alone on a sinking hulk,
particularly on an ink-black night—

All at once he whirled and faced the door with an exclamation of
astonishment, for a voice had addressed him.

There,—clinging to the casing, stood a woman—a girl—evidently
drawn out of the darkness by the light which streamed down across the
sloping deck from his stateroom. Plainly she had but just awakened,
for she was clothed in a silken nightrobe which failed to conceal the
outlines of her body, the swelling contour of her bosom, the ripened
fullness of her limbs. She had flung a quilted dressing-gown of some
sort over her shoulders and with one bare arm and hand strove to hold
it in place. He saw that her pink feet were thrust into soft, heeless
slippers—that her hair, black in this light, cascaded down to her
waist, and that her eyes, which were very dark and very large, were
fixed upon him with a stare like that of a sleep-walker.

"It is so dark—so strange—so still!" she murmured. "What has
happened?"

"God! Didn't they waken you?" he cried in sharp surprise.

"Is the ship-sinking?" Her odd bewilderment of voice and gaze
puzzled him.

He nodded. "We struck a rock. The passengers have been taken off.
We're the only ones left. In Heaven's name where have you been?"

"I was asleep."

He shook his head in astonishment. "How you failed to hear that
hubbub—"

"I heard something, but I was ill. My head—I took something to
ease the pain."

"Ah! Medicine! It hasn't worn off yet, I see! You shouldn't have
taken it. Drugs are nothing but poison to young people. Now at my age
there might be some excuse for resorting to them, but you—" He was
talking to cover the panic of his thoughts, for his own predicament
had been serious enough, and her presence rendered it doubly
embarrassing. What in the world to do with her he scarcely knew. His
lips were smiling, but his eyes were grave as they roved over the
cabin and out into the blackness of the night.

She came closer, glancing behind her and shrinking from the oily
waters which could be seen over the rail and which had stolen up
nearly to the sill of the door. She steadied herself by laying hold
of him uncertainly. Involuntarily he turned his eyes away, for he felt
shame at profaning her with his gaze. She was very soft and white, a
fragile thing utterly unfit to cope with the night air and the
freezing waters of Halibut Bay.

"I'm wretchedly afraid!" she whispered through white lips.

"None of that!" he said, brusquely. "I 'll see that nothing
happens to you." He slipped out of his life-preserver and adjusted it
over her shoulders, first drawing her arms through the sleeves of her
dressing-gown and knotting the cord snugly around her waist. "Just as
a matter of precaution!" he assured her. "We may get wet. Can you
swim?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind; I can." He found another life-belt, fitted it to his
own form, and led her out upon the deck. The scuppers were awash now
and she gasped as the sea licked her bare feet. "Cold, isn't it?" he
remarked. "But there's no time to dress, and it's just as well,
perhaps, for heavy clothes would only hamper you."

Slipping his arm about her, he bore her to the door of the main
cabin and entered. He could feel her warm, soft body quivering
against his own. She had clasped his neck so tightly that he could
scarcely breathe, but, lowering her until her feet were on the dry
carpet, he gently loosed her arms.

"Now, my dear child," he told her, "you must do exactly as I tell
you. Come! Calm yourself or I won't take you any farther." He held
her off by her shoulders. "I may have to swim with you; you mustn't
cling to me so!"

He heard her gasp and felt her draw away abruptly. Then he led her
by the hand out upon the starboard deck, and together they made their
way forward to the neighborhood of the bridge.

The lights he had seen upon coming from the forward hold were
still in view and he hailed them at the top of his voice. But other
voices were calling through the night, some of them comparatively
close at hand, others answering faintly from far in-shore. The boats
first launched were evidently landing, and those in charge of them
were shouting directions to the ones behind. Some women had started
singing and the chorus floated out to the man and the girl:

Pull for the shore, sailor, Pull for the shore.

It helped to drown their cries for assistance.

O'Neil judged that the ship was at least a quarter of a mile from
the beach, and his heart sank, for he doubted that either he or his
companion could last long in these waters. It occurred to him that
Brennan might be close by, waiting for the Nebraska to sink —it would
be unlike the little captain to forsake his trust until the last
possible moment—but he reasoned that the cargo of lives in the
skipper's boat would induce him to stand well off to avoid accident.
He called lustily time after time, but no answer came.

Meanwhile the girl stood quietly beside him.

"Can't we make a raft?" she suggested, timidly, when he ceased to
shout. "I've read of such things."

"There's no time," he told her. "Are you very cold?"

She nodded. "Please forgive me for acting so badly just now. It
was all so sudden and—so awful! I think I can behave better. Oh!
What was that?" She clutched him nervously, for from the forward end
of the ship had come a muffled scream, like that of a woman.

"It's my poor horses," said the man, and she looked at him
curiously, prompted by the catch in his throat.

There followed a wait which seemed long, but was in reality of but
a few minutes, for the ship was sliding backward and the sea was
creeping upward faster and faster. At last they heard a shuddering
sigh as she parted from the rocks and the air rushed up through the
deck openings with greater force. The Nebraska swung sluggishly with
the tide; then, when her upper structure had settled flush with the
sea, Murray O'Neil took the woman in his arms and leaped clear of the
rail.

The first gasping moment of immersion was fairly paralyzing; after
that the reaction came, and the two began to struggle away from the
sinking ship. But the effect of the reaction soon wore off. The water
was cruelly cold and their bodies ached in every nerve and fiber.
O'Neil did his best to encourage his companion. He talked to her
through his chattering teeth, and once she had recovered from the
mental shock of the first fearful plunge she responded pluckily. He
knew that his own heart was normal and strong, but he feared that the
girl's might not be equal to the strain. Had he been alone, he felt
sure that he could have gained the shore, but with her upon his hands
he was able to make but little headway. The expanse of waters seemed
immense; it fairly crushed hope out of him. The lights upon the shore
were as distant as fixed stars. This was a country of heavy tides, he
reflected, and he began to fear that the current was sweeping them
out. He turned to look for the ship, but could see no traces of her,
and since it was inconceivable that the Nebraska could have sunk so
quietly, her disappearance confirmed his fears. More than once he
fancied he heard an answer to his cries for help— the rattle of
rowlocks or the splash of oars—but his ears proved unreliable.

After a time the girl began to moan with pain and terror, but as
numbness gradually robbed her of sensation she became quiet. A little
later her grip upon his clothing relaxed and he saw that she was
collapsing. He drew her to him and held her so that her face lay
upturned and her hair floated about his shoulders. In this position
she could not drown, at least while his strength lasted. But he was
rapidly losing control of himself; his teeth were clicking loosely,
his muscles shook and twitched It required a great effort to shout,
and he thought that his voice did not carry so far as at first.
Therefore he fell silent, paddling with his free arm and kicking, to
keep his blood stirring.

Several times he gave up and floated quietly, but courage was
ingrained in him; deep down beneath his consciousness was a vitality,
an inherited stubborn resistance to death, of which he knew nothing.
It was that unidentified quality of mind which supports one man
through a great sickness or a long period of privation, while another
of more robust physique succumbs. It was the same quality which brings
one man out from desert wastes, or the white silence of the polar ice,
while the bodies of his fellows remain to mark the trail. This innate
power of supreme resistance is found in chosen individuals throughout
the animal kingdom, and it was due to it alone that Murray O'Neil
continued to fight the tide long after he had ceased to exert
conscious control.

At length there came through the man's dazed sensibilities a sound
different from those he had been hearing: it was a human voice,
mingled with the measured thud of oars in their sockets. It roused him
like an electric current and gave him strength to cry out hoarsely.
Some one answered him; then out of the darkness to seaward emerged a
deeper blot, which loomed up hugely yet proved to be no more than a
life-boat banked full of people. It came to a stop within an
oar's-length of him. From the babble of voices he distinguished one
that was familiar, and cried the name of Johnny Brennan. His brain had
cleared now, a great dreamlike sense of thanksgiving warmed him, and
he felt equal to any effort. He was vaguely amazed to find that his
limbs refused to obey him.

His own name was being pronounced in shocked tones; the splash
from an oar filled his face and strangled him, but he managed to lay
hold of the blade, and was drawn in until outstretched hands seized
him.

An oarsman was saying: "Be careful, there! We can't take him in
without swamping."

Another protest arose, and O'Neil saw that the craft was indeed
loaded to the gunwales.

"Take the girl—quick," he implored. "I'll hang on. You can—tow
me."

The limp form was removed from his side and dragged over the
thwarts while a murmur of excited voices went up.

"Can you hold out for a minute, Murray?" asked Brennan.

"Yes—I think so."

"I'd give you my place, but you're too big to be taken in without
danger."

"Go ahead," chattered the man in the water. "Look after the girl
before it's—too late."

The captain's stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him
crying:

"Pull, you muscle-bound heathens! Everybody sit still! Now away
with her, men. Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it takes
more than water to kill a good Irishman. It's only a foot or two
farther, and they've started a fire. Serves you right, you big idiot,
for going overboard, with all those boats. Man dear, but you're
pulling the arm out of me; it's stretched out like a garden hose! Hey!
Cover up that girl, and you, lady, rub her feet and hands. Good! Move
over please—so the men can bail."

The next O'Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very cold,
notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing and lay
so close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet. He was swearing, too,
in a weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness that
the prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and that his
death would be a national calamity. Others were gathered about, men
and women, and among them O'Neil saw the doctor from Sitka whom he had
met on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the
girl he had helped to rescue. Johnny promptly reassured him.

"Praise God, not a soul! But it's lucky I stood by to watch the
old tub go down, or we'd be mourning two. You'll be well by morning,
for there's a cannery in the next inlet and I've sent a boat's crew
for help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again and take a sleep,
won't you? It 'll be doing you a lot of good."

But O'Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

"Thanks, Johnny," said he, "but I couldn't. I can hear those
horses screaming, and besides—I must make new plans."

As dawn broke the cannery tender from the station near by nosed
her way up to the gravelly shore where the castaways were gathered
and blew a cheering toot-toot on her whistle. She was a flat-bottomed,
"wet-sterned" craft, and the passengers of the Nebraska trooped to her
deck over a gang-plank. As Captain Brennan had predicted, not one of
them had wet a foot, with the exception of the two who had been left
aboard through their own carelessness.

By daylight Halibut Bay appeared an idyllic spot, quite innocent
of the terrors with which the night had endowed it. A pebbled
half-moon of beach was set in among rugged bluffs; the verdant forest
crowded down to it from behind. Tiny crystal wavelets lapped along the
shingle, swaying the brilliant sea mosses which clung to the larger
rocks. Altogether the scene gave a strong impression of peace and
security, yet just in the offing was one jarring contrast—the masts
and funnel of the Nebraska slanting up out of the blue serenity, where
she lay upon the sloping bottom in the edge of deep water.

The reaction following a sleepless night of anxiety had replaced
the first feeling of thankfulness at deliverance, and it was not a
happy cargo of humanity which the rescuing boat bore with her as the
sun peeped over the hills. Many of the passengers were but half
dressed, all were exhausted and hungry, each one had lost something in
the catastrophe. The men were silent, the women hysterical, the
children fretful.

Murray O'Neil had recovered sufficiently to go among them with the
same warm smile which had made him friends from the first. In the
depths of his cool gray eyes was a sparkle which showed his
unquenchable Celtic spirit, and before long smiles answered his
smiles, jokes rose to meet his pleasantries.

It was his turn now to comfort Captain Johnny Brennan, who had
yielded to the blackest despair, once his responsibility was over.

"She was a fine ship, Murray," the master lamented, staring with
tragic eyes at the Nebraska's spars.

"She was a tin washtub, and rusted like a sieve," jeered O'Neil.

"But think of me losing her on a still night!"

"I'm not sure yet that it wasn't a jellyfish that swam through
her."

"Humph! I suppose her cargo will be a total loss. Two hundred
thousand dollars—"

"Insured for three hundred, no doubt. I'll warrant the company
will thank you."

"It's kind of you to cheer me up," said Brennan, a little less
gloomily, "especially after the way I abandoned you to drown, but the
missus won't allow me in the house at all when she hears I left you in
pickle. Thank God the girl didn't die, anyway! I've got that to be
thankful for. Curtis Gordon would have broken me— "

"Gordon?"

"Sure! Man dear, don't you know who you went bathing with? She's
the daughter of that widow Gerard, and the most prominent passenger
aboard, outside of your blessed self. Ain't that luck! If I was a Jap
I'd split myself open with a bread-knife."

"But, fortunately, you're a sensible 'harp' of old Ireland. I'll
see that the papers get the right story, 'o buck up."

"Do you think for a minute that Mrs. Brennan will understand why I
didn't hop out of the lifeboat and give you my place? Not at all. I'm
ruined nautically and domestically. In the course of the next ten
years I may live it down, but meanwhile I'll sleep in the woodshed and
speak when I'm spoken to."

Murray knew that Miss Gerard had been badly shaken by her ordeal,
hence he made no attempt to see her even after the steamer had
reached the fishing-village and the rescued passengers had been taken
in by the residents. Instead, he went directly to the one store in the
place and bought its entire stock, which he turned over to the
sufferers. It was well he did so, for the village was small and,
although the townspeople were hospitable, both food aad clothing were
scarce.

A south-bound steamer was due the next afternoon, it was learned,
and plans were made for her to pick up the castaways and return them
to Seattle. At the same time O'Neil discovered that a freighter for
the "westward" was expected some time that night, and as she did not
call at this port he arranged for a launch to take him out to the
channel where he could intercept her. The loss of his horses had been
a serious blow. It was all the more imperative now that he should go
on, since he would have to hire men to do horses' work.

During the afternoon Miss Gerard sent for him and he went to the
house of the cannery superintendent, where she had been received. The
superintendent's wife had clothed her, and she seemed to have
recovered her poise of body and mind. O'Neil was surprised to find
her quite a different person from the frightened and disheveled girl
he had seen in the yellow lamplight of his stateroom on the night
before. She was as pale now as then, but her expression of terror and
bewilderment had given place to one of reposeful confidence. Her lips
were red and ripe and of a somewhat haughty turn. She was attractive,
certainly, despite the disadvantage of the borrowed garments, and
though she struck him as being possibly a little proud and cold, there
was no lack of warmth in her greeting.

For her part she beheld a man of perhaps forty, of commanding
height and heavy build. He was gray about the temples; his eyes were
gray, too, and rather small, but they were extremely animated and
kindly, and a myriad of little lines were penciled about their
corners. These were evidently marks of expression, not of age, and
although the rugged face itself was not handsome, it had a degree of
character that compelled her interest. His clothes were good, and in
spite of their recent hard usage they still lent him the appearance of
a man habitually well dressed.

She was vaguely disappointed, having pictured him as being in the
first flush of vigorous youth, but the feeling soon disappeared under
the charm of his manner. The ideal figure she had imagined began to
seem silly and school-girlish, unworthy of the man himself. She was
pleased, too, by his faint though manifest embarrassment at her
thanks, for she had feared a lack of tact.

Above all things she abhorred obligation of any sort, and she was
inclined to resent masculine protection. This man's service filled
her with real gratitude, yet she rebelled at the position in which it
placed her. She preferred granting favors to receiving them.

But in fact he dismissed the whole subject so brusquely that he
almost offended her, and when she realized how incomplete had been
her acknowledgment, she said, with an air of pique:

"You might have given me a chance to thank you without dragging
you here against your will."

"I'm sorry if I seemed neglectful."

She fell silent for a moment before asking:

"Do you detest me for my cowardice? I couldn't blame you for never
wanting to see me again."

"You were very brave. You were splendid," he declared. "I simply
didn't wish to intrude."

"I was terribly frightened," she confided, "but I felt that I
could rely upon you. That's what every one does, isn't it? You see,
you have a reputation. They told me how you refused to be taken into
the boat for fear of capsizing it. That was fine."

"Oh, there was nothing brave about that. I wanted to get in badly
enough, but there wasn't, room. Jove! It was cold, wasn't it?" His
ready smile played whimsically about his lips, and the girl felt
herself curiously drawn to him. Since he chose to make light of
himself, she determined to allow nothing of the sort.

"They have told me how you bought out this whole funny little
place," she said, "and turned it over to us. Is it because you have
such a royal way of dispensing favors that they call you 'The Irish
Prince'?"

"That's only a silly nickname."

"I don't think so. You give people food and clothes with a
careless wave of the hand; you give me my life with a shrug and a
smile; you offer to give up your own to a boatful of strangers
without a moment's hesitation. I—I think you are a remarkable
person."

"You'll turn my head with such flattery if you aren't careful," he
said with a slight flush. "Please talk of something sensible now, for
an antidote—your plans, for instance."

"My plans are never sensible, and what few I have are as empty as
my pockets. To tell the truth, I have neither plans nor pockets," she
laughed, "since this is a borrowed gown."

"Pockets in gowns are entirely matters of hearsay, anyhow; I doubt
if they exist. You are going back to Seattle?"

"Oh, I suppose so. It seems to be my fate, but I'm not a bit
resigned. I'm one of those unfortunate people who can't bear to be
disappointed."

"You can return on the next ship, at the company's expense."

"No. Mother would never allow it. In fact, when she learns that
I'm out here she'll probably send me back to New York as fast as I
can go."

"Doesn't she know where you are?"

"Indeed no! She thinks I'm safely and tamely at home. Uncle Curtis
wouldn't object to my visit, I fancy; at any rate, I've been counting
on his good offices with mother, but it's too late now."

In answer to her questioning look he explained his plan of
intercepting the freight-steamer that night, whereupon her face
brightened with sudden hope.

"Can't I go, too?" she implored, eagerly. She was no longer the
haughty young lady he had met upon entering the room, but a very
wistful child.

"I'm afraid that's hardly—-"

"Oh! If only you knew how much it means! If only you knew how
badly I want to! I'm not afraid of discomforts."

"It's not that—-"

"Please! Please! Be a real prince and grant me this boon. Won't
you? My heart is set upon it."

It was hard to resist her imploring eyes—eyes which showed they
had never been denied. It was hard for O'Neil to refuse anything to a
woman.

"If your uncle is willing," he began, hesitatingly.

"He isn't my really uncle—I just call him that."

"Well, if Mr. Gordon wouldn't object, perhaps I can manage it,
provided, of course, you promise to explain to your mother."

Miss Gerard's frank delight showed that she was indeed no more
than a child. Her changed demeanor awakened a doubt in the man's
mind.

"It will mean that you'll have to sit up all night in an open
launch," he cautioned her.

"I'll sit up for a week."

"With the creepy water all about, and big black mountains frowning
at you!"

"Oh, fiddle!" she exclaimed. "You'll be there if I get
frightened." Rising impulsively she laid her hand on his arm and
thanked him with an odd mingling of frankness and shyness, as if
there could be no further doubt of his acquiescence. He saw that her
eyes were the color of shaded woodland springs and that her hair was
not black, but of a deep, rich brown where the sun played upon it, the
hue of very old mahogany, with the same blood-red flame running
through it. He allowed himself to admire her in silence, until
suddenly she drew back with a startled exclamation.

"What is it?"

"I forgot—I have no clothes." Her words came with a doleful
cadence.

"The universal complaint of your sex," he said, smiling. "Allow me
to talk with your hostess. I'm sure she will let you walk out with
your borrowed finery, just like Cinderella. You'll need a nice thick
coat, too."

"But this is her very, very best dress."

"She shall receive, on the next ship, a big box all lined with
tissue-paper, with the imprint of the most fashionable dressmaker in
Seattle. I'll arrange all that by cable."

"You don't know how she loves it," the girl said, doubtfully.

"Come! Call her in. If I'm to be a prince you mustn't doubt my
power."

Nor did the event prove him over-confident. Before he had fairly
made known his request the good lady of the house was ready to
surrender not only her best Sunday gown, but her fluttering heart as
well. Murray O'Neil had a way of making people do what he wanted, and
women invariably yielded to him.

To Natalie Gerard the trip down the bay and into the sound that
night was a wonderful adventure. She remembered it afterward far more
vividly than the shipwreck, which became blurred in retrospect, so
that she soon began to think of it as of some half-forgotten
nightmare. To begin with, the personality of Murray O'Neil intrigued
her more and more. The man was so strong, so sympathetic, and he had
such a resistless way of doing things. The stories she had heard of
him were romantic, and the superintendent's wife had not allowed them
to suffer in the telling. Natalie felt elated that such a remarkable
person should exert himself on her behalf. And the journey itself
impressed her imagination deeply.

Although it was nine o'clock when they boarded the launch, it was
still light. The evening was yellow with the peculiar diffused
radiance of high latitudes, lending a certain somberness to their
surroundings.

The rushing tide, the ragged rock-teeth which showed through it,
the trackless, unending forests that clothed the hills in every
direction, awed her a little, yet gave her an unaccustomed feeling of
freedom and contentment. The long wait out between the lonely islands,
where the tiny cockle-shell rolled strangely, although the sea seemed
as level as a floor, held a subtle excitement. Darkness crept down out
of the unpeopled gorges and swallowed them up, thrilling her with a
sense of mystery.

When midnight came she found that she was ravenously hungry, and
she was agreeably surprised when O'Neil produced an elaborate lunch.
There were even thermos bottles filled with steaming hot coffee, more
delicious, she thought, than anything she had ever before tasted. He
called the meal their after-theater party, pretending that they had
just come from a Broadway melodrama of shipwreck and peril. The
subject led them naturally to talk of New York, and she found he was
more familiar with the city than she.

"I usually spend my winters there," he explained.

"Then you have an office in the city?"

"Oh yes. I've maintained a place of business there for years."

"Where is it? On Wall Street?"

"No!" he smiled. "On upper Fifth Avenue. It's situated in the
extreme southwest corner of the men's cafe at the Holland House. It
consists of a round mahogany table and a leather settee."

"Really!"

"That's where I'm to be found at least four months out of every
twelve."

"They told me you built railroads."

"I do—when I'm lucky enough to underbid my competitors. But that
isn't always, and railroads aren't built every day."

"Mr. Gordon is building one."

"So I'm told." O'Neil marveled at the trick of fortune which had
entangled this girl and her mother in the web of that brilliant and
unscrupulous adventurer.

"Perhaps it will be a great success like your famous North Pass
Yukon Railway."

"Let us hope so." He was tempted to inquire what use Gordon had
made of that widely advertised enterprise in floating his own
undertaking, but instead he asked:

"Your mother has invested heavily, has she not?"

"Not in the railroad. Her fortune, and mine too, is all in the
coal mines."

O'Neil smothered an exclamation.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Nothing, only—are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure! The mines are rich, aren't they?"

"There are no mines," he informed her, "thanks to our misguided
lawmakers at Washington. There are vast deposits of fine coal which
would—make mines if we were allowed to work them, but—we are not
allowed."

"'We'? Are you a—a coal person, like us?"

"Yes. I was one of the first men in the Kyak fields, and I
invested heavily. I know Mr. Gordon's group of claims well. I have
spent more than a hundred thousand dollars trying to perfect my titles
and I'm no nearer patent now than I was to begin with— not so near,
in fact. I fancy Gordon has spent as much and is in the same fix. It
is a coal matter which brings me to Alaska now."

"I hardly understand."

"Of course not, and you probably won't after I explain. You see
the Government gave us—gave everybody who owns coal locations in
Alaska—three years in which to do certain things; then it extended
that time another three years. But recently a new Secretary of the
Interior has come into office and he has just rescinded that later
ruling, without warning, which gives us barely time to comply with the
law as it first stood. For my part, I'll have to hustle or lose
everything I have put in. You see? That's why I hated to see those
horses drown, for I intended to use them in reaching the coal-fields.
Now I'll have to hire men to carry their loads. No doubt Mr. Gordon
has arranged to protect your holdings, but there are hundreds of
claimants who will be ruined."

"I supposed the Government protected its subjects," said the girl,
vaguely.

"One of the illusions taught in the elementary schools," laughed
O'Neil. "We Alaskans have found that it does exactly the opposite! We
have found it a harsh and unreasonable landlord. But I'm afraid I'm
boring you." He wrapped her more snugly in her coverings, for a chill
had descended with the darkness, then strove to enliven her with
stories garnered from his rich experience—stories which gave her
fascinating glimpses of great undertakings and made her feel
personally acquainted with people of unfamiliar type, whose words and
deeds, mirthful or pathetic, were always refreshingly original. Of
certain individuals he spoke repeatedly until their names became
familiar to his hearer. He called them his "boys" and his voice was
tender as he told of their doings.

"These men are your staff?" she ventured.

"Yes. Every one who succeeds in big work must have loyal hands to
help him."

"Where are they now?"

"Oh! Scattered from Canada to Mexico, each one doing his own
particular work. There's Mellen, for instance; he's in Chihuahua
building a cantilever bridge. He's the best steel man in the country.
McKay, my superintendent, is running a railroad job in California.
'Happy Tom' Slater—"

"The funny man with the blues?"

"Exactly! He was at work on a hydraulic project near Dawson the
last I heard of him. Dr. Gray is practising in Seattle, and Parker,
the chief engineer, has a position of great responsibility in Boston.
He is the brains of our outfit, you understand; it was really he who
made the North Pass Yukon possible. The others are scattered out in
the same way, but they'd all come if I called them." The first note of
pride she had detected crept into his voice when he said: "My 'boys'
are never idle. They don't have to be, after working with me."

"And what is your part of the work?" asked the girl.

"I? Oh, I'm like Marcelline, the clown at the Hippodrome—always
pretending to help, but forever keeping underfoot. When it becomes
necessary I raise the money to keep the performance going."

"Do you really mean that all those men would give up their
positions and come to you if you sent for them?"

"By the first train, or afoot, if there were no other way. They'd
follow me to the Philippines or Timbuctoo, regardless of their homes
and their families."

"That is splendid! You must feel very proud of inspiring such
loyalty," said Natalie. "But why are you idle now? Surely there are
railroads to be built somewhere."

"Yes, I was asked to figure on a contract in Manchuria the other
day. I could have had it easily, and it would have meant my
everlasting fortune, but—"

"But what?"

"I found it isn't a white man's country. It's sickly and unsafe.
Some of my 'boys' would die before we finished it, and the game isn't
worth that price. No, I'll wait. Something better will turn up. It
always does."

As Natalie looked upon that kindly, square-hewn face with its
tracery of lines about the eyes, its fine, strong jaw, and its
indefinable expression of power, she began to understand more fully
why those with whom she had talked had spoken of Murray O'Neil with an
almost worshipful respect. She felt very insignificant and purposeless
as she huddled there beside him, and her complacence at his attentions
deepened into a vivid sense of satisfaction. Thus far he had spoken
entirely of men; she wondered if he ever thought of women, and
thrilled a bit at the intimacy that had sprung up between them so
quickly and naturally.

It confirmed her feeling of prideful confidence in the man that
the north-bound freighter should punctually show her lights around
the islands and that she should pause in her majestic sweep at the
signal of this pigmy craft. The ship loomed huge and black and
terrifying as the launch at length drew in beneath it; its sides
towered like massive, unscalable ramparts. There was a delay; there
seemed to be some querulousness on the part of the officer in command
at being thus halted, some doubt about allowing strangers to come
aboard. But the girl smiled to herself as the voices flung themselves
back and forth through the night. Once they learned who it was that
called from the sea their attitude would quickly change. Sure enough,
in a little while orders were shouted from the bridge; she heard men
running from somewhere, and a rope ladder came swinging down. O'Neil
was lifting her from her warm nest of rugs now and telling her to
fear nothing. The launch crept closer, coughing and shuddering as if
in terror at this close contact. There was a brief instant of
breathlessness as the girl found herself swung out over the waters;
then a short climb with O'Neil's protecting hand at her waist and she
stood panting, radiant, upon steel decks which began to throb and
tremble to the churning engines.

One further task remained for her protector's magic powers. It
appeared that there were no quarters on the ship for women, but after
a subdued colloquy between Murray and the captain she was led to the
cleanest and coziest of staterooms high up near the bridge. Over the
door she glimpsed a metal plate with the words "First Officer"
lettered upon it. O'Neil was bidding her good night and wishing her
untroubled rest, then almost before she had accustomed herself to her
new surroundings an immaculate, though sleepy, Japanese steward stood
before her with a tray. He was extremely cheerful for one so lately
awakened, being still aglow with pleased surprise over the banknote
which lay neatly folded in his waistcoat pocket.

Natalie sat cross-legged on her berth and munched with the
appetite of a healthy young animal at the fruit and biscuits and
lovely heavy cake which the steward had brought. She was very glad
now that she had disobeyed her mother. It was high time, indeed, to
assert herself, for she was old enough to know something of the world,
and her judgment of men was mature enough to insure perfect
safety—that much had been proved. She felt that her adventure had
been a great success practically and romantically. She wanted to lie
awake and think it over in detail, but she soon grew sleepy. Just
before she dozed off she wondered drowsily if "The Irish Prince" had
found quarters for himself, then reflected that undoubtedly the
captain had been happy to tumble out of bed for him. Or perhaps he
felt no fatigue and would watch the night through. Even now he might
be pacing the deck outside her door. At any rate, he was not far off.
She closed her eyes, feeling deliciously secure and comfortable.

In one way the southern coast of Alaska may be said to be perhaps
a million years younger than any land on this continent, for it is
still in the glacial period. The vast alluvial plains and valleys of
the interior are rimmed in to the southward and shut off from the
Pacific by a well-nigh impassable mountain barrier, the top of which
is capped with perpetual snow. Its gorges, for the most part, run
rivers of ice instead of water. Europe has nothing like these glaciers
which overflow the Alaskan valleys and submerge the hills, for many of
them contain more ice than the whole of Switzerland. This range is the
Andes of the north, and it curves westward in a magnificent sweep,
hugging the shore for a thousand leagues. Against it the sea beats
stormily; its frozen crest is played upon by constant rains and fogs
and blizzards. But over beyond lies a land of sunshine, of long, dry,
golden summer days.

Into this chaos of cliff and peak and slanting canyon, midway to
the westward, is let King Phillip Sound, a sheet of water dotted with
islands and framed by forests. It reaches inland with long, crooked
tentacles which end like talons, in living ice. Hidden some forty
miles up one of these, upon the moraine of a receding glacier, sits
Cortez, a thriving village and long the point of entry to the
interior, the commencement of the overland trail to the golden valleys
of the Yukon and the Tanana. The Government wagon trail winds in from
here, tracing its sinuous course over one pass after another until it
emerges into the undulating prairies of the "inside country."

Looking at the map, one would imagine that an easier gateway to
the heart of Alaska would be afforded by the valley of the Salmon
River, which enters the ocean some few miles to the eastward of King
Phillip Sound, but there are formidable difficulties. The stream
bursts the last rampart of the Coast Range asunder by means of a
canyon down which it rages in majestic fury and up which no craft can
navigate. Then it spreads itself out through a dozen shallow mouths
across a forty-mile delta of silt and sand and glacial wash. As if
Nature feared her arctic strong-box might still be invaded by this
route, she has placed additional safeguards to the approach in the
form of giant glaciers, through the very bowels of which the Salmon
River is forced to burrow.

In the early days of the Klondike rush men had attempted to ascend
the valley, but they had succeeded only at the cost of such peril and
disaster that others were warned away. The region had become the
source of many weird stories, and while the ice- fields could be seen
from the Kyak coal-fields, and on still days their cannonading could
be heard far out at sea, there were few who had ventured to cross the
forty-mile morass which lay below them and thus attempt to verify or
to disprove the rumors,

It was owing to these topographical conditions that Cortez had
been established as the point of entry to the interior; it was
because of them that she had grown and flourished, with her sawmills
and her ginmills, her docks, and her dives. But at the time when this
story opens Alaska had developed to a point where an overland outlet
by winter and a circuitous inlet, by way of Bering Sea and the crooked
Yukon, in summer were no longer sufficient, There was need of a
permanent route by means of which men and freight might come and go
through all the year. The famous North Pass Yukon Railway, far to the
eastward, afforded transportation to Dawson City and the Canadian
territory, and had proven itself such a financial success that
builders began to look for a harbor, more to the westward, from which
they could tap the great heart of Alaska. Thus it was that Cortez
awoke one morning to find herself selected as the terminus of a new
line. Other railway propositions followed, flimsy promotion schemes
for the most part, but among them two that had more than paper and
"hot air" behind them. One of these was backed by the Copper Trust
which had made heavy mining investments two hundred miles inland, the
other by Curtis Gordon, a promoter, who claimed New York as his
birthplace and the world as his residence.

Gordon had been one of the first locaters in the Kyak coal-
fields, and he had also purchased a copper prospect a few miles down
the bay from Cortez, where he had started a town which he called Hope.
There were some who shook their heads and smiled knowingly when they
spoke of that prospect, but no one denied that it was fast assuming
the outward semblance of a mine under Gordon's direction. He had
erected a fine substantial wharf, together with buildings,
bunk-houses, cottages, and a spacious residence for himself; and daily
the piles of debris beneath the tunnel entries to his workings grew.
He paid high wages, he spent money lavishly, and he had a magnificent
and compelling way with him that dazzled and delighted the good people
of Cortez. When he began work on a railroad which was designed to
reach far into the interior his action was taken as proof positive of
his financial standing, and his critics were put down as pessimists
who had some personal grudge against him.

It was up to the raw, new village of Hope, with its odor of
fresh-cut fir and undried paint, that the freight-steamer with
Natalie Gerard and "The Irish Prince" aboard, came gingerly one
evening.

O'Neil surveyed the town with some curiosity as he approached, for
Gordon's sensational doings had interested him greatly. He was
accustomed to the rapid metamorphoses of a growing land; it was his
business, in fact, to win the wilderness over to order, and therefore
he was not astonished at the changes wrought here during his absence.
But he was agreeably surprised at the businesslike arrangement of the
place, and the evidence that a strong and practised hand had guided
its development.

Even before the ship had tied up he had identified the tall,
impressive man on the dock as the genius and founder of Hope, and the
dark-haired, well-formed woman beside him as Natalie's mother. It was
not until they were close at hand that the daughter made her presence
known; then, unable to restrain herself longer, she shrieked her
greeting down over the rail. Mrs. Gerard started, then stared upward
as if at an apparition; she stretched out a groping hand to Gordon,
who stood as if frozen in his tracks. They seemed to be exchanging
hurried words, and the man appeared to be reassuring his companion. It
looked very odd to O'Neil; but any suspicion that Natalie was
unwelcome disappeared when she reached the dock. Her mother's dark
eyes were bright with unshed tears of gladness, her face was
transfigured, she showed the strong, repressed emotion of an
undemonstrative nature as they embraced. Natalie clung to her,
laughing, crying, bombarding her with questions, begging forgiveness,
and babbling of her adventures. Their resemblance was striking, and in
point of beauty there seemed little to choose between them. They might
have been nearly of an age, except that the mother lacked the girl's
restless vivacity.

O'Neil remained in the background, like an uncomfortable
bridegroom, conscious meanwhile of the searching and hostile regard
of Curtis Gordon. But at last his protegee managed to gasp out in a
more or less coherent manner the main facts of the shipwreck and her
rescue, whereupon Gordon's attitude abruptly altered.

"My God!" he ejaculated. "You were not on the Nebraska?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Natalie. "The life-boats went off and left
me all alone—in the dark—with the ship sinking! Mr. O'Neil saved
me. He took me up and jumped just as the ship sank, and we were all
night in the freezing water. We nearly died, didn't we? He fainted,
and so did I, mummie dear—it was so cold. He held me up until we were
rescued, though, and then there wasn't room in the life-boat for both
of us. But he made them take me in, just the same, while he stayed in
the water. He was unconscious when he reached the shore. Oh, it was
splendid!"

O'Neil's identity being established, and the nature of his service
becoming apparent, Curtis Gordon took his hand in a crushing grip and
thanked him in a way that might have warmed the heart of a stone
gargoyle. The man was transformed, now that he understood; he became a
geyser of eloquence. He poured forth his appreciation in rounded
sentences; his splendid musical voice softened and swelled and broke
with a magnificent and touching emotion. Through it all the Irish
contractor remained uncomfortably silent, for he could not help
thinking that this fulsome outburst was aroused rather by the man who
had built the North Pass

A crowd was collecting round them, but Gordon cleared it away with
an imperious gesture.

"Come!" he said. "This is no place to talk. Mr. O'Neil's splendid
gallantry renders our mere thanks inane. He must allow us to express
our gratitude in a more fitting manner."

"Please don't," exclaimed O'Neil, hastily.

"You are our guest; the hospitality of our house is yours. Hope
would be honored to welcome you, sir, at any time, but under these
circumstances—"

"I'm going right on to Cortez."

"The ship will remain here for several hours, discharging freight,
and we insist that you allow us this pleasure meanwhile. You shall
spend the night here, then perhaps you will feel inclined to prolong
your stay. All that Cortez has we have in double proportion—I say it
with pride. Cortez is no longer the metropolis of the region.
Hope—Well, I may say that Cortez is, of all Alaskan cities, the most
fortunate, since it has realized its Hope." He laughed musically.
"This town has come to stay; we intend to annex Cortez eventually. If
you feel that you must go on, I shall deem it a pleasure to send you
later in my motor- boat. She makes the run in fifteen minutes. But you
must first honor our house and our board; you must permit us to pledge
your health in a glass. We insist!"

Curtis Gordon's respect for his guest increased as they walked up
the dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the crowd
which had gathered to watch the ship's arrival stepped one of his
foremen. This fellow shook hands warmly with O'Neil, whereupon others
followed, one by one—miners, day laborers, "rough-necks" of many
nationalities. They doffed their hats- something they never did for
Gordon—and stretched out grimy hands, their faces lighting up with
smiles. O'Neil accepted their greetings with genuine pleasure and
called them by name.

"We just heard you was shipwrecked," said Gordon's foreman,
anxiously. "You wasn't hurt, was you?"

"Not in the least."

"God be praised! There's a lot of the old gang at work here."

"So I see."

"Here's Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass." The
speaker dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian who
had hung back with the bashfulness of a small boy. "He's the fellow
you dug out of the slide at twenty-eight."

"Connors!" cried O'Neil, warmly. "I'm glad to see you. And how are
the two arms of you?"

"Better 'n ever they was, the both av them!" Mr. Connors blushed,
doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles. "An' why shouldn't
they be, when you set 'em both with your own hands, Misther O'Neil?
'Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the hospittle. I hope
you're doin' well, sir." He pulled his forelock, placed one foot
behind the other, and tapped it on the planking, grinning expansively.

"Very well indeed, thank you."

O'Neil's progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon
shaking his hand and exchanging a few words with him. Clumsy Swedes
bobbed their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose nationality it
was hard to distinguish showed their teeth and chattered words of
greeting.

"Bless my soul!" Gordon exclaimed, finally.

"You know more of them than I do."

"Yes! I seldom have to fire a man."

"Then you are favored of the gods. Labor is my great problem. It
is the supreme drawback of this country. These people drift and blow
on every breeze, like the sands of the Sahara. With more and better
help I could work wonders here."

Unexpected as these salutations had been, O'Neil's greatest
surprise came a moment later as he passed the first of the company
buildings. There he heard his name pronounced in a voice which halted
him, and in an open doorway he beheld a huge, loose- hung man of
tremendous girth, with a war-bag in his hand and a wide black hat
thrust back from a shiny forehead.

"Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Tom Slater!"

Gordon groaned and went on with the women, saying: "Come up to the
house when you escape, Mr. O'Neil. I shall have dinner served."

Mr. Slater came forward slowly, dragging his clothes-bag with him.
The two shook hands.

"What in the world are you doing here, Tom?"

"Nothing!" said Slater. He had a melancholy cast of feature,
utterly out of keeping with his rotund form. In his eye was the
somber glow of a soul at war with the flesh.

"Nothing?"

"I had a good job, putting in a power plant for his nibs"—he
indicated the retreating Gordon with a disrespectful jerk of the
thumb—"but I quit."

"Not enough pay?"

"Best wages I ever got. He pays well."

"Poor grub?"

"Grub's fine."

"What made you quit?"

"I haven't exactly quit, but I'm going to. When I saw you coming
up the dock I said: 'There's the chief! Now he'll want me.' So I
began to pack." The speaker dangled his partly filled war-bag as
evidence. In an even sourer tone he murmured:

"Ain't that just me? I ain't had a day's luck since Lincoln was
shot. The minute I get a good job along you come and spoil it."

"I don't want you," laughed O'Neil.

But Slater was not convinced. He shook his head.

"Oh yes, you do. You've got something on or you wouldn't be here.
I've been drawing pay from you now for over five minutes."

O'Neil made a gesture of impatience.

"No! No! In the first place, I have nothing for you to do; in the
second place, I probably couldn't afford the wages Gordon is paying
you."

"I haven't any. I've been shipwrecked. Seriously, Tom, I have no
place for you."

The repetition of this statement made not the smallest impression
upon the hearer.

"You'll have one soon enough," he replied. Then with a touch of
spirit, "Do you think I'd work for this four-flusher if you were in
the country?"

"Hush!" O'Neil cast a glance over his shoulder. "By the way, how
do you happen to be here? I thought you were in Dawson."

"I finished that job. I was working back toward ma and the
children. I haven't seen them for two years."

"You think Gordon is a false alarm?"

"Happy Tom" spat with unerring accuracy at a crack, then said:

"He's talking railroads! Railroads! Why, I've got a boy back in
the state of Maine, fourteen years old—"

"Willie?"

"Yes. My son Willie could skin Curtis Gordon at railroad-
building—and Willie is the sickly one of the outfit. But I'll hand
it to Gordon for one thing; he's a money-getter and a money- spender.
He knows where the loose stone in the hearth is laid, and he knows
just which lilac bush the family savings are buried under. Those
penurious Pilgrim Fathers in my part of the country come up and drop
their bankbooks through the slot in his door every morning. He's the
first easy money I ever had; I'd get rich off of him, but"—Slater
sighed—"of course you had to come along and wrench me away from the
till."

"Don't quit on my account," urged his former chief. "I'm up here
on coal matters. I can't take time to explain now, but I'll see you
later."

"Suit yourself, only don't keep me loafing on full time. I'm an
expensive man. I'll be packed and waiting for you."

O'Neil went on his way, somewhat amused, yet undeniably pleased at
finding his boss packer here instead of far inland, for Slater's
presence might, after all, fit well enough into his plans.

"The Irish Prince" had gained something of a reputation for
extravagance, but he acknowledged himself completely outshone by the
luxury with which Curtis Gordon had surrounded himself at Hope. The
promoter had spoken of his modest living-quarters—in reality they
consisted of a handsome twenty-room house, furnished with the elegance
of a Newport cottage. The rugs were thick and richly colored; the
furniture was of cathedral oak and mahogany. In the library were deep
leather chairs and bookcases, filled mainly with the works of French
and German authors of decadent type. The man's taste in art was
revealed by certain pictures, undeniably clever, but a little too
daring. He was undoubtedly a sybarite, yet he evidently possessed rare
energy and executive force. It was an unusual combination.

The dinner was notable mainly for its lavish disregard of expense.
There were strawberries from Seattle, fresh cream and butter from
Gordon's imported cows, cheese prepared expressly for him in Prance,
and a champagne the date of which he took pains to make known.

On the whole he played the part of host agreeably enough and his
constant flow of talk was really entertaining. His anecdotes embraced
three continents; his wit, though Teutonic, was genial and
mirth-provoking. When Mrs. Gerard took time from her worshipful regard
of her daughter to enter the conversation, she spoke with easy charm
and spontaneity. As for Natalie, she was intoxicated with delight; she
chattered, she laughed, she interrupted with the joyful exuberance of
youth.

Under such circumstances the meal should have proved enjoyable,
yet the guest of honor had never been more ill at ease. Precisely
what accounted for the feeling he could not quite determine.
Somewhere back in his mind was a suspicion that things were not as
they should be, here in this house of books and pictures and
incongruities. He told himself that he should not be so narrow-
minded as to resent Gloria Gerard's presence here, particularly since
she herself had told him that her friendship for Gordon dated back
many years. Nevertheless, the impression remained to disturb him.

"You wonder, perhaps, why I have been so extravagant with my
living-quarters," said Gordon, as they walked into the library, "but
it is not alone for myself. You see I have people associated with me
who are accustomed to every comfort and luxury and I built this house
for them. Mrs. Gerard has been kind enough to grace the establishment
with her presence, and I expect others of my stock-holders to do
likewise. You see, I work in the light, Mr. O'Neil; I insist upon the
broadest publicity in all my operations, and to that end I strive to
bring my clients into contact with the undertaking itself. For
instance, I am bringing a party of my stockholders all the way from
New York, at my own expense, just to show them how their interests are
being administered. I have chartered a special train and a ship for
them, and of course they must be properly entertained while here."

"Quite a scheme," said O'Neil.

"I wanted to show them this marvelous country, God's wonderland of
opportunity. They will return impressed by the solidity and permanence
of their investment."

Certainly the man knew how to play his game. No more effective
means of advertising, no more profitable stock-jobbing scheme could
be devised than a free trip of that sort and a tour of Alaska under
the watchful guidance of Curtis Gordon. If any member of the party
returned unimpressed it would not be the fault of the promoter; if any
one of them did not voluntarily go out among his personal friends as a
missionary it would be because Gordon's magnetism had lost its power.
O'Neil felt a touch of unwilling admiration.

"I judge, from what you say, that the mine gives encouragement,"
he ventured, eying his host curiously through a cloud of tobacco
smoke.

"'Encouragement' is not the word. Before many years 'Hope
Consolidated' will be listed on the exchanges of the world along with
'Amalgamated' and the other great producers. We have here, Mr. O'Neil,
a tremendous mountain of ore, located at tide water, on one of the
world's finest harbors. The climate is superb; we have coal near at
hand for our own smelter. The mine only requires systematic
development under competent hands."

"I was in Cortez when Lars Anderson made his first discovery here,
and I had an option on all this property. I believe the price was
twelve hundred dollars; at any rate, it was I who drove those tunnels
you found when you bought him out."

Gordon's eyes wavered briefly, then he laughed.

"My dear sir, you have my sincere sympathy. Your poison, my meat
—as it were, eh? You became discouraged too soon. Another hundred
feet of work and you would have been justified in paying twelve
hundred thousand dollars. This 'Eldorado' which the Copper Trust has
bought has a greater surface showing than 'Hope,' I grant; but—it
lies two hundred miles inland, and there is the all-important question
of transportation to be solved. The ore will have to be hauled, or
smelted on the ground, while we have the Kyak coal-fields at our door.
The Heidlemanns are building a railroad to it which will parallel mine
in places, but the very nature of their enterprise foredooms it to
failure."

"Indeed? How so?"

"My route is the better. By a rigid economy of expenditure, by a
careful supervision of detail, I can effect a tremendous saving over
their initial cost. I hope to convince them of the fact, and thus
induce them to withdraw from the field or take over my road at—a
reasonable figure. Negotiations are under way."

At this talk of economy from Curtis Gordon O'Neil refrained from
smiling with difficulty. He felt certain that the man's entire
operations were as unsound as his statement that he could bring the
Trust to terms. Yet Gordon seemed thoroughly in earnest. Either he
expected to fool his present hearer, or else he had become hypnotized
by the spell of his own magnificent twaddle— O'Neil could not tell
which.

"Who laid out your right-of-way?" he asked with some interest.

"A very able young engineer, Dan Appleton. An excellent man, but
—unreliable in certain things. I had to let him go, this very
afternoon, in fact, for insubordination. But I discharged him more
for the sake of discipline than anything else. He'll be anxious to
return in a few days. Now tell me"—Gordon fixed his visitor with a
bland stare which failed to mask his gnawing curiosity—"what brings
you to King Phillip Sound? Are we to be rivals in the railroad field?"

"No. There are enough projects of that sort in the neighborhood
for the present."

"Five, all told, but only one destined to succeed."

"I'm bound for the Kyak coal-fields to perfect and amend my
surveys under the new ruling."

"I'm not sure that it's wise to put more good money into those
coal claims," said Gordon. "This ruling will doubtless be reversed as
the others have been. One never knows what the Land Office policy will
be two days at a time."

"You know your own business," O'Neil remarked after a pause, "but
unless you have inside information, or a bigger pull in Washington
than the rest of us, I'd advise you to get busy. I'll be on my way to
Kyak in the morning with a gang of men." Gordon's attitude puzzled
him, for he could not bring himself to believe that such indifference
was genuine.

"We have been treated unfairly by the Government."

"Granted!"

"We have been fooled, cheated, hounded as if we were a crowd of
undesirable aliens, and I'm heartily sick of the injustice. I prefer
to work along lines of least resistance. I feel tempted to let Uncle
Sam have my coal claims, since he has lied to me and gone back on his
promise, and devote myself to other enterprises which offer a
certainty of greater profits. But"—Gordon smiled deprecatingly—"I
dare say I shall hold on, as you are doing, until that fossilized
bureau at Washington imposes some new condition which will ruin us
all."

Remembering Natalie's statement that her own and her mother's
fortunes were tied up in the mines, O'Neil felt inclined to go over
Gordon's head and tell the older woman plainly the danger of delay in
complying with the law, but he thought better of the impulse. Her
confidence in this man was supreme and it seemed incredible that
Gordon should jeopardize her holdings and his own. More likely his
attitude was just a part of his pose, designed to show the bigness of
his views and to shed a greater luster upon his railroad project.

It was difficult to escape from the hospitality of Hope, and
O'Neil succeeded in doing so only after an argument with Natalie and
her mother. They let him go at last only upon his promise to return on
his way back from the coal-fields, and they insisted upon accompanying
him down to the dock, whither Gordon had preceded them in order to
have his motor-boat in readiness.

As they neared the landing they overheard the latter in spirited
debate with "Happy Tom" Slater.

"But my dear fellow," he was saying, "I can't lose you and
Appleton on the same day."

"You can't? Why, you've done it!" the fat man retorted, gruffly.

"I refuse to be left in the lurch this way. You must give more
notice."

Slater shrugged, and without a word tossed his bulging war bag
into the motor-boat which lay moored beneath him. His employer's face
was purple with rage as he turned to Murray and the ladies, but he
calmed himself sufficiently to say:

"This man is in charge of important work for me, yet he tells me
you have hired him away."

"Tom!" exclaimed O'Neil.

"I never said that," protested Slater. "I only told you I was
working for Murray."

"Well?"

"I hired myself. He didn't have anything to say about it. I do all
the hiring, firing, and boosting in my department."

"I appeal to you, O'Neil. I'm short-handed," Gordon cried.

"I tell you he don't have a word to say about it," Slater declared
with heat.

Natalie gave a little tinkling laugh. She recognized in this man
the melancholy hero of more than one tale "The Irish Prince" had told
her. Murray did his best, but knowing "Happy Tom's" calm obstinacy of
old, he had no real hope of persuading him.

"You see how it is," he said, finally. "He's been with me for
years and he refuses to work for any one else while I'm around. If I
don't take him with me he'll follow."

Mr. Slater nodded vigorously, then imparted these tidings:

"It's getting late, and my feet hurt." He bowed to the women, then
lowered himself ponderously yet carefully over the edge of the dock
and into the leather cushions of the launch. Once safely aboard, he
took a package of wintergreen chewing-gum from his pocket and began to
chew, staring out across the sound with that placid, speculative
enjoyment which reposes in the eyes of a cow at sunset.

Curtis Gordon's face was red and angry as he shook hands stiffly
with his guest and voiced the formal hope that they would meet again.

"I'm glad to be gone," Slater observed as the speed-boat rushed
across the bay. "I'm a family man, and—I've got principles. Gordon's
got neither."

"It was outrageous for you to walk out so suddenly. It embarrassed
me."

"Oh, he'd let me go without notice if he felt like it. He fired
Dan Appleton this afternoon just for telling the truth about the
mine. That's what I'd have got if I'd stayed on much longer. I was
filling up with words and my skin was getting tight. I'd have busted,
sure, inside of a week."

"Isn't the mine any good?"

"It ain't a mine at all. It's nothing but an excavation filled
with damn fools and owned by idiots; still, I s'pose it serves
Gordon's purpose." After a pause he continued: "They tell me that
snakes eat their own young! Gordon ought to call that mine the
Anaconda, for it'll swallow its own dividends and all the money those
Eastern people can raise."

"I'm sorry for Mrs. Gerard."

Slater emitted a sound like the moist exhalation of a porpoise as
it rises to the surface.

"What do you mean by that snort?" asked Murray.

"It's funny how much some people are like animals. Now the ostrich
thinks that when his head is hid his whole running-gear is out of
sight. Gordon's an ostrich. As for you—you remind me of a mud turtle.
A turtle don't show nothing but his head, and when it's necessary he
can yank that under cover. Gordon don't seem to realize that he sticks
up above the underbrush—either that or else he don't care who sees
him. He and that woman—"

Mr. Slater grunted once more, then chewed his gum silently,
staring mournfully into the twilight. After a moment he inquired:

"Why don't you show these people how to build a railroad, Murray?"

"No, thank you! I know the country back of here. It's not
feasible."

"The Copper Trust is doing it."

"All the more reason why I shouldn't. There are five projects
under way now, and there won't be more than enough traffic for one."

Slater nodded. "Every man who has two dollars, a clean shirt, and
a friend at Washington has got a railroad scheme up his sleeve."

"It will cost thirty million dollars to build across those three
divides and into the copper country. When the road is done it will be
one of heavy grades, and—"

"No wonder you didn't get the contract from the Heidlemanns—if
your estimate was thirty million."

"I didn't put in a figure."

Tom looked surprised. "Why didn't you? You know them."

"I was like the little boy who didn't go to the party—I wasn't
asked." The speaker's expression showed that his pride had been hurt
and discouraged further questioning. "We'll hire our men and our boats
to-night," he announced. "I've arranged for that freighter to drop us
off at Omar on her way out. We'll have to row from there to Kyak. I
expected to land my horses at the coast and pack in from Kyak Bay, but
that shipwreck changed my plans. Poor brutes! After my experience I'll
never swim horses in this water again."

An eleven-o'clock twilight enveloped Cortez when the two men
landed, but the town was awake. The recent railway and mining
activity in the neighborhood had brought a considerable influx of
people to King Phillip Sound, and the strains of music from
dance-hall doors, the click of checks and roulette balls from the
saloons, gave evidence of an unusual prosperity.

O'Neil had no difficulty in securing men. Once he was recognized,
the scenes at Hope were re-enacted, and there was a general scramble
to enlist upon his pay-roll. Within an hour, therefore, his
arrangements were made, and he and Tom repaired to Callahan's Hotel
for a few hours' sleep.

A stud game was going on in the barroom when they entered, and
O'Neil paused to watch it while Slater spoke to one of the players, a
clean-cut, blond youth of whimsical countenance. When the two friends
finally faced the bar for their "nightcap" Tom explained:

"That's Appleton, the fellow Gordon fired to-day. I told him I'd
left the old man flat."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure. Nice boy—good engineer, too."

"Umph! That game is crooked."

"No?" "Happy Tom" displayed a flash of interest.

"Yes, Cortez is fast becoming a metropolis, I see. The man in the
derby hat is performing a little feat that once cost me four thousand
dollars to learn."

"I'd better split Dan away," said Tom, hastily.

"Wait! Education is a good thing, even if it is expensive at
times. I fancy your friend is bright enough to take care of himself.
Let's wait a bit."

"Ain't that just my blamed luck?" lamented Slater. "Now if they
were playing faro I could make a killing. I'd 'copper' Appleton's
bets and 'open' the ones he coppered!"

O'Neil smiled, for "Happy Tom's" caution in money matters was
notorious. "You know you don't believe in gambling," he said.

"It's not a belief, it's a disease," declared the fat man. "I was
born to be a gambler, but the business is too uncertain. Now that I'm
getting so old and feeble I can't work any more, I'd take it up, only
I broke three fingers and when I try to deal I drop the cards. What
are we going to do?"

Unobserved the two friends watched the poker game, which for a
time proceeded quietly. But suddenly they saw Appleton lean over the
table and address the man with the derby hat; then, thrusting back his
chair, he rose, declaring, in a louder tone:

"I tell you I saw it. I thought I was mistaken at first." His face
was white, and he disregarded the efforts of his right-hand neighbor
to quiet him.

"Don't squeal," smiled the dealer. "I'll leave it to the boys if I
did anything wrong."

"You pulled that king from the bottom. It may not be wrong, but
it's damned peculiar."

Appleton's face flushed as he beheld the gaze of the company upon
him and heard the laughter which greeted this remark. He turned to
leave when O'Neil, who had continued to watch the proceedings with
interest, crossed to the group and touched Denny on the shoulder,
saying, quietly:

"Give him his money."

"Eh?" The smile faded from the fellow's face; he looked up with
startled inquiry. "What?"

"Give him his money."

In the momentary hush which followed, "Happy Tom" Slater, who had
frequently seen his employer in action and understood storm signals,
sighed deeply and reached for the nearest chair. With a wrench of his
powerful hands he loosened a leg. Although Mr. Slater abhorred
trouble, he was accustomed to meet it philosophically. A lifetime
spent in construction camps had taught him that, of all weapons, the
one best suited to his use was a pick-handle; second to that he had
come to value the hardwood leg of a chair. But in the present case his
precaution proved needless, for the dispute was over before he had
fairly prepared himself.

Without waiting for O'Neil to put his accusation into words Denny
had risen swiftly, and in doing so he had either purposely or by
accident made a movement which produced a prompt and instinctive
reaction. Murray's fist met him as he rose, met him so squarely and
with such force that he lost all interest in what followed. The other
card-players silently gathered Mr. Denny in their arms and stretched
him upon a disused roulette table; the bartender appeared with a wet
towel and began to bathe his temples.

Appleton, dazed by the suddenness of it all, found a stack of gold
pieces in his hand and heard O'Neil saying in an every-day tone:

"Come to my room, please. I'd like to talk to you." Something
commanding in the speaker's face made the engineer follow against his
will. He longed to loiter here until Denny had regained his
senses—but O'Neil had him by the arm and a moment later he was being
led down the hall away from the lobby and the barroom. As Slater, who
had followed, closed the door behind them, Dan burst forth:

"By Jove! Why didn't you tell me? I knew he was crooked—but I
couldn't believe—"

"Sit down!" said O'Neil. "He won't pull himself together for a
while, and I want to get to bed. Are you looking for a job?"

The engineer's eyes opened wide.

"Yes."

"Do you know the Kyak country?"

"Pretty well."

"I need a surveyor. Your wages will be the same that Gordon paid
and they begin now, if it's agreeable."

"I'm O'Neil." "Oh!" Mr. Appleton's expression changed quickly.
"You're Murray—" He stammered an instant. "It was very good of you
to take my part, after I'd been fool enough to—"

"Well—I didn't want to see you make a total idiot of yourself."

The young man flushed slightly, then in a quieter voice, he asked:

"How did you know I was out of work?"

"Mr. Gordon told me. He recommended you highly."

"He did?"

"He said you were unreliable, disloyal, and dishonest. Coming from
him I took that as high praise."

There was a moment's pause, then Appleton laughed boyishly.

"That's funny! I'm very glad to know you, Mr. O'Neil."

"You don't, and you won't for a long time. Tom tells me you didn't
think well of Gordon's enterprise and so he fired you."

"That's right! I suppose I ought to have kept my mouth shut, but
it has a way of flying open when it shouldn't. He is either a fool or
a crook, and his mine is nothing but a prospect. I couldn't resist
telling him so."

"And his railroad?"

Appleton hesitated. "Oh, it's as good a route as the Trust's. I
worked on the two surveys. Personally I think both outfits are crazy
to try to build in from here. I had to tell Gordon that, too. You see
I'm a volunteer talker. I should have been born with a stutter—it
would have saved me a lot of trouble."

O'Neil smiled. "You may talk all you please in my employ, so long
as you do your work. Now get some sleep, for we have a hard trip. And
by the way"—the youth paused with a hand on the doorknob— "don't go
looking for Denny."

Appleton's face hardened stubbornly.

"I can't promise that, sir."

"Oh yes you can! You must! Remember, you're working for me, and
you're under orders. I can't have the expedition held up on your
account."

The engineer's voice was heavy with disappointment, but a vague
admiration was growing in his eyes as he agreed:

"Very well, sir. I suppose my time is yours. Good night."

When he had gone "Happy Tom" inquired:

"Now, why in blazes did you hire him? We don't need a high-priced
surveyor on this job."

"Of course not, but don't you see? He'd have been arrested, sure.
Besides—he's Irish, and I like him."

"Humph! Then I s'pose he's got a job for life," said Tom,
morosely. "You make friends and enemies quicker than anybody I ever
saw. You've got Curtis Gordon on your neck now."

"On account of this boy? Nonsense!"

"Not altogether. Denny is Gordon's right bower. I think he calls
him his secretary; anyhow, he does Gordon's dirty work and they're
thicker than fleas. First you come along and steal me, underhanded,
then you grab his pet engineer before he has a chance to hire him back
again. Just to top off the evening you publicly brand his confidential
understrapper as a card cheat and thump him on the medulla
oblongata—"

"Are you sure it wasn't the duodenum?"

"Well, you hit him in a vital spot, and Gordon won't forget it."

Late on the following morning O'Neil's expedition was landed at
the deserted fishing-station of Omar, thirty miles down the sound
from Cortez. From this point its route lay down the bay to open water
and thence eastward along the coast in front of the Salmon River delta
some forty miles to Kyak. This latter stretch would have been
well-nigh impossible for open boats but for the fact that the numerous
mud bars and islands thrown out by the river afforded a sheltered
course. These inside channels, though shallow, were of sufficient
depth to allow small craft to navigate and had long been used as a
route to the coal-fields.

Appleton, smiling and cheerful, was the first member of the party
to appear at the dock that morning, and when the landing had been
effected at Omar he showed his knowledge of the country by suggesting
a short cut which would save the long row down to the mouth of the
sound and around into the delta. Immediately back of the old cannery,
which occupied a gap in the mountain rim, lay a narrow lake, and this,
he declared, held an outlet which led into the Salmon River flats. By
hauling the boats over into this body of water—a task made easy by
the presence of a tiny tramway with one dilapidated push-car which had
been a part of the cannery equipment—it would be possible to save
much time and labor.

"I've heard there was a way through," O'Neil confessed, "but
nobody seemed to know just where it was."

"I know," the young man assured him. "We can gain a day at least,
and I judge every day is valuable."

"So valuable that we can't afford to lose one by making a
mistake," said his employer, meaningly.

"Leave it to me. I never forget a country once I've been through
it."

Accordingly the boats were loaded upon the hand-car and
transferred one at a time. In the interval O'Neil examined his
surroundings casually. He was surprised to find the dock and
buildings in excellent condition, notwithstanding the fact that the
station had lain idle for several years. A solitary Norwegian, with
but a slight suspicion of English, was watching the premises and
managed to make known his impression that poor fishing had led the
owners to abandon operations at this point. He, too, had heard that
Omar Lake had an outlet into the delta, but he was not sure of its
existence; he was sure of nothing, in fact except that it was very
lonesome here, and that he had run out of tobacco five days before.

But Dan Appleton was not mistaken. A two hours' row across the
mirror-like surface of Omar Lake brought the party out through a
hidden gap in the mountains and afforded them a view across the level
delta. To their left the range they had just penetrated retreated
toward the canon where the Salmon River burst its way out from the
interior, and beyond that point it continued in a coastward swing to
Kyak, their destination. Between lay a flat, trackless tundra, cut by
sloughs and glacial streams, with here and there long tongues of
timber reaching down from the high ground and dwindling away toward
the seaward marshes. It was a desolate region, the breeding-place of
sea fowl, the hunting- ground for the great brown bear.

O'Neil had never before been so near the canon as this, and the
wild stories he had heard of it recurred to him with interest. He
surveyed the place curiously as the boats glided along, but could see
nothing more than a jumble of small hills and buttes, and beyond them
the dead-gray backs of the twin glaciers coming down from the slopes
to east and west. Beyond the foot-hills and the glaciers themselves
the main range was gashed by a deep valley, through which he judged
the river must come, and beyond that he knew was a country of
agricultural promise, extending clear to the fabulous copper belt
whither the railroads from Cortez were headed. Still farther inland
lay the Tanana, and then the Yukon, with their riches untouched.

What a pity, what a mockery, it was that this obvious entrance to
the country had been blocked by nature! Just at his back was Omar,
with its deep and sheltered harbor; the lake he had crossed gave a
passage through the guardian range, and this tundra— O'Neil estimated
that he could lay a mile of track a day over it —led right up to the
glaciers. Once through the Coast Range, building would be easy, for
the upper Salmon was navigable, and its banks presented no
difficulties to track-laying.

He turned abruptly to Appleton, who was pulling an oar.

"What do you know about that canyon?" he asked.

"Not much. Nobody knows much, for those fellows who went through
in the gold rush have all left the country. Gordon's right-of-way
comes in above, and so does the Trust's. From there on I know every
foot of the ground."

"I suppose if either of them gets through to the Salmon the rest
will be easy."

"Dead easy!"

"It would be shorter and very much cheaper to build from Omar,
through this way."

"Of course, but neither outfit knew anything about the outlet to
Omar Lake until I told them—and they knew there was the canon to be
reckoned with."

"Well?"

Appleton shook his head. "Look at it! Does it look like a place to
build a railroad?"

"I can't tell anything about it, from here."

"I suppose a road could be built if the glaciers were on the same
side of the river, but—they're not. They face each other, and
they're alive, too. Listen!" The oarsmen ceased rowing at Dan's
signal, and out of the northward silence came a low rumble like the
sound of distant cannonading. "We must be at least twenty miles away,
in an air line. The ice stands up alongside the river, hundreds of
feet high, and it breaks off in chunks as big as a New York
office-building."

"You've been up there?"

"No. But everybody says so, and I've seen glacier ice clear out
here in the delta. They're always moving, too—the glaciers
themselves—and they're filled with crevasses, so that it's dangerous
to cross them on foot even if one keeps back from the river."

"How did those men get their outfits through in '98?" O'Neil
queried.

"I'm blessed if I know—maybe they flew." After a moment Dan
added, "Perhaps they dodged the pieces as they fell."

O'Neil smiled. He opened his lips to speak, then closed them, and
for a long time kept his eyes fixed speculatively in the direction of
the canyon. When he had first spoken of a route from Omar he had
thrown out the suggestion with only a casual interest. Now, suddenly,
the idea took strong possession of his mind; it fascinated him with
its daring, its bigness. He had begun to dream.

The world owes all great achievements to dreamers, for men who
lack vivid imaginations are incapable of conceiving big enterprises.
No matter how practical the thing accomplished, it requires this
faculty, no less than a poem or a picture. Every bridge, every
skyscraper, every mechanical invention, every great work which man has
wrought in steel and stone and concrete, was once a dream.

O'Neil had no small measure of the imaginative power that makes
great leaders, great inventors, great builders. He was capable of
tremendous enthusiasm; his temperament forever led him to dare what
others feared to undertake. And here he glimpsed a tremendous
opportunity. The traffic of a budding nation was waiting to be seized.
To him who gained control of Alaskan transportation would come the
domination of her resources. Many were striving for the prize, but if
there should prove to be a means of threading that Salmon River canon
with steel rails, the man who first found it would have those other
railroad enterprises at his mercy. The Trust would have to sue for
terms or abandon further effort; for this route was shorter, it was
level, it was infinitely cheaper to improve. The stakes in the game
were staggering. The mere thought of them made his heart leap. The
only obstacle, of course, lay in those glaciers, and he began to
wonder if they could not be made to open. Why not? No one knew
positively that they were impregnable, for no one knew anything
certainly about them. Until the contrary had been proven there was at
least a possibility that they were less formidable than rumor had
painted them.

Camp was pitched late that night far out on the flats. During the
preparation of supper Murray sat staring fixedly before him, deaf to
all sounds and insensible to the activities of his companions. He had
lost his customary breeziness and his good nature; he was curt,
saturnine, unsmiling. Appleton undertook to arouse him from this
abstraction, but Slater drew the young man aside hurriedly with a
warning,

"Don't do that, son, or you'll wear splints for the rest of the
trip."

"What's the matter with him, anyhow?" Dan inquired. "He was
boiling over with enthusiasm all day, but now—Why, he's asleep
sitting up! He hasn't moved for twenty minutes."

When food was served O'Neil made a pretense of eating, but rose
suddenly in the midst of it, with the words:

"I'll stretch my legs a bit." His voice was strangely listless; in
his eyes was the same abstraction which had troubled Appleton during
the afternoon. He left the camp and disappeared up the bank of the
stream.

"Nice place to take a walk!" the engineer observed. "He'll bog
down in half a mile or get lost among the sloughs."

"Not him!" said Slater. Nevertheless, his worried eyes followed
the figure of his chief as long as it was in sight. After a time he
announced: "Something is coming, but what it is or where it's going to
hit us I don't know."

Their meal over, the boatmen made down their beds, rolled up in
their blankets, and were soon asleep. Appleton and Tom sat in the
smoke of a smudge, gossiping idly as the twilight approached. From
the south came the distant voice of the sea, out of the north rolled
the intermittent thunder of those falling bergs, from every side
sounded a harsh chorus of water-fowl. Ducks whirred past in
bullet-like flight, honkers flapped heavily overhead, a pair of
magnificent snow-white swans soared within easy gunshot of the camp.
An hour passed, another, and another; the arctic night descended. And
through it all the mosquitoes sang their blood song and stabbed the
watchers with tongues of flame.

"Happy Tom" sang his song, too, for it was not often that he
obtained a listener, and it proved to be a song of infinite hard
luck. Mr. Slater, it seemed, was a creature of many ills, the
wretched abiding-place of aches and pains, of colics, cramps, and
rheumatism. He was the target of misfortune and the sport of fate.
His body was the galloping-ground of strange disorders which baffled
diagnosis; his financial affairs were dominated by an evil genius
which betrayed him at every turn. To top it all, he suffered at the
moment a violent attack of indigestion.

"Ain't that just my luck?" he lamented. "Old 'Indy's got me good,
and there ain't a bit of soda in the outfit."

Appleton, who was growing more and more uneasy at the absence of
his leader, replied with some asperity:

"Instead of dramatizing your own discomforts you'd better be
thinking of the boss. I'm going out to look for him."

"Now don't be a dam' fool," Slater advised. "It would be worth a
broken leg to annoy him when he's in one of these fits. You'd make
yourself as popular as a smallpox patient at a picnic. When he's
dreamed his dream he'll be back."

Darkness had settled when O'Neil reappeared. He came plunging out
of the brush, drenched, muddy, stained by contact with the thickets;
but his former mood had disappeared and in its place was a harsh,
explosive energy.

"Tom!" he cried. "You and Appleton and I will leave at daylight.
The men will wait here until we get back." His voice was incisive,
its tone forbade question.

The youthful engineer stared at him in dismay, for only his
anxiety had triumphed over his fatigue, and daylight was but four
hours away. O'Neil noted the expression, and said, more gently:

"You're tired, Appleton, I know, but in working for me you'll be
called upon for extraordinary effort now and then. I may not demand
more than an extra hour from you; then again I may demand a week
straight without sleep. I'll never ask it unless it's necessary and
unless I'm ready to do my share."

"Yes, sir."

"The sacrifice is big, but the pay is bigger. Loyalty is all I
require."

"I'm ready now, sir."

"We can't see to travel before dawn. Help Tom load the lightest
boat with rations for five days. If we run short we'll 'Siwash' it."
He kicked off his rubber boots, up-ended them to drain the water out,
then flung himself upon his bed of boughs and was asleep almost before
the two had recovered from their surprise.

"Five days—or longer!" Slater said, gloomily, as he and Dan began
their preparations. "And me with indigestion!"

"What does it mean?" queried Appleton.

"It means I'll probably succumb."

"No, no! What's the meaning of this change of plan? I can't
understand it."

"You don't need to," "Happy Tom" informed him, curtly. There was a
look of solicitude in his face as he added, "I wish I'd made him take
off his wet clothes before he went to sleep."

"Let's wake him up."

But Slater shook his head. "I'd sooner wake a rattlesnake," said
he.

O'Neil roused the members of his expedition while the sky was
reddening faintly, for he had a mind which worked like an alarm-
clock. All except Appleton had worked for him before, and the men
accepted his orders to await his return with no appearance of
surprise.

With the first clear light he and his two companions set out,
rowing up the estuary of the Salmon until the current became too
swift to stem in that manner. Then landing, they rigged a "bridle"
for the skiff, fitted their shoulders to loops in a ninety-foot tow
rope, and began to "track" their craft up against the stream. It was
heartbreaking work. Frequently they were waist-deep in the cold water.
Long "sweepers" with tips awash in the flood interfered with their
efforts. The many branches of the stream forced them to make repeated
crossings, for the delta was no more than an endless series of islands
through which the current swirled. When dusk overtook them they were
wet, weary, and weak from hunger. With the dawn they were up and at it
again, but their task became constantly more difficult because of the
floating glacier ice, which increased with every mile. They were
obliged to exercise the extremest caution. Hour after hour they
strained against the current, until the ropes bit into their aching
flesh, bringing raw places out on neck and palm. Hour after hour the
ice, went churning past, and through it all came the intermittent echo
of the caving glaciers ahead of them.

Dan Appleton realized very soon whither the journey was leading,
and at thought of actually facing those terrors which loomed so large
in conjecture his pulses began to leap. He had a suspicion of O'Neil's
intent, but dared not voice it. Though the scheme seemed mad enough,
its very audacity fascinated him. It would be worth while to take part
in such an undertaking, even if it ended in failure. And somehow,
against his judgment, he felt that his leader would find a way.

For the most part, O'Neil was as silent as a man of stone, and
only on those rare occasions when he craved relief from his thoughts
did he encourage Dan to talk. Then he sometimes listened, but more
frequently he did not. Slater had long since become a dumb draught
animal, senseless to discomfort except in the hour of relaxation when
he monotonously catalogued his ills.

"Are you a married man?" O'Neil inquired once of Dan.

"Not yet, sir."

"Family?"

"Sure! A great big, fine one, consisting of a sister. But she's
more than a family—she's a religion." Receiving encouragement from
his employer's look of interest, he continued: "We were wiped out by
the San Francisco earthquake, and stood in the bread line for a while.
We managed to save four thousand dollars from the wreck, which we
divided equally. Then we started out to make our fortunes. It was her
idea."

"You came to Cortez?"

"Yes. Money was so easy for me that I lost all respect for it. The
town rang with my mirth for a while. I was an awful fool."

"Education!"

"Now it's my ambition to get settled and have her with me. I
haven't had a good laugh, a hearty meal, or a Christian impulse since
I left her."

"What did she do with her half of the fortune?"

"Invested it wisely and went to work. I bought little round
celluloid disks with mine; she bought land of some sort with hers.
She's a newspaper woman, and the best in the world—or at least the
best in Seattle. She wrote that big snow-slide story for The Review
last fall. She tells 'em how to raise eight babies on seven dollars a
week, or how to make a full set of library furniture out of three beer
kegs, a packing-case, and an epileptic icebox. She runs the 'Domestic
Economy' column; and she's the sweetest, the cleverest, the most
stunning—"

Appleton's enthusiastic tribute ceased suddenly, for he saw that
O'Neil was once more deaf and that his eyes were fixed dreamily upon
the canon far ahead.

As the current quickened the progress of the little party became
slower and more exhausting. Their destination seemed to retreat
before them; the river wound back and forth in a maddening series of
detours. Some of the float ice was large now, and these pieces rushed
down upon them like charging horses, keeping them constantly on the
alert to prevent disaster. It seemed impossible that such a flat
country could afford so much fall. "Happy Tom" at length suggested
that they tie up and pack the remaining miles overland, but O'Neil
would not hear to this.

They had slept so little, their labors had been so heavy, that
they were dumb and dull with fatigue when they finally reached the
first bluffs and worked their boat through a low gorge where all the
waters of the Salmon thrashed and icebergs galloped past like a pallid
host in flight. Here they paused and stared with wondering eyes at
what lay before; a chill, damp breath swept over them, and a mighty
awe laid hold of their hearts.

"Come on!" said O'Neil. "Other men have gone through; we'll do the
same,"

On the evening of the sixth day a splintered, battered poling-
boat with its seams open swung in to the bank where O'Neil's men were
encamped, and its three occupants staggered out. They were gaunt and
stiff and heavy-eyed. Even Tom Slater's full cheeks hung loose and
flabby. But the leader was alert and buoyant; his face was calm, his
eyes were smiling humorously.

"You'll take the men on to the coal-fields and finish the work,"
he told his boss packer later that night. "Appleton and I will start
back to Cortez in the morning. When you have finished go to Juneau and
see to the recording."

"Ain't that my luck?" murmured the dyspeptic. "Me for Kyak where
there ain't a store, and my gum all wet."

"Chew it, paper and all," advised Appleton, cheerfully.

"Oh, the good has all gone out of it now," Slater explained.

"Meet me in Seattle on the fifteenth of next month," his employer
directed.

"I'll be there if old 'Indy' spares me. But dyspepsia, with
nothing to eat except beans and pork bosom, will probably lay me in
my grave long before the fifteenth. However, I'll do my best. Now, do
you want to know what I think of this proposition of yours?" He eyed
his superior somberly.

"Sure; I want all the encouragement I can get, and your views are
always inspiriting."

"Well, I think it's nothing more nor less than hydrophobia. These
mosquitoes have given you the rabies and you need medical attention.
You need it bad."

"Still, you'll help me, won't you?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I'll help you. But it's a pity to see a man
go mad."

The clerk of the leading hotel in Seattle whirled his register
about as a man deposited a weather-beaten war-bag on the marble floor
and leaned over the counter to inquire:

"Is Murray O'Neil here?"

This question had been asked repeatedly within the last two hours,
but heretofore by people totally different in appearance from the one
who spoke now. The man behind the desk measured the stranger with a
suspicious eye before answering. He saw a ragged, loose-hung, fat
person of melancholy countenance, who was booted to the knee and
chewing gum.

"Mr. O'Neil keeps a room here by the year," he replied, guardedly.

"Show me up!" said the new-comer as if advancing a challenge.

A smart reply was on the lips of the clerk, but something in the
other's manner discouraged flippancy.

"You are a friend of Mr. O'Neil's?" he asked, politely.

"Friend? Um-m, no! I'm just him when he ain't around." In a loud
tone he inquired of the girl at the news-stand, "Have you got any
wintergreen

"Mr. O'Neil is not here."

The fat man stared at his informant accusingly, "Ain't this the
fifteenth?" he asked.

"It is."

"Then he's here, all right!"

"Mr. O'Neil is not in," the clerk repeated, gazing fixedly over
Mr. Slater's left shoulder.

"Well, I guess his room will do for me. I ain't particular."

"His room is occupied at present. If you care to wait you will
find—"

Precisely what it was that he was to find Tom never learned, for
at that moment the breath was driven out of his lungs by a tremendous
whack, and he turned to behold Dr. Stanley Gray towering over him, an
expansive smile upon his face.

"We've been expecting you, Tom," said the Doctor. "We're all here
except Parker, and he wired he'd arrive to-morrow,"

"Where's Murray?"

"He's around somewhere."

Slater turned a resentful, smoldering gaze upon the hotel clerk,
and looked about him for a chair with a detachable leg, but the
object of his regard disappeared abruptly behind the key-rack.

"This rat-brained party said he hadn't come."

"He arrived this morning, but we've barely seen him."

"I left Appleton in Juneau. He'll be down on the next boat."

"Appleton? Who's he?" Dr. Gray inquired.

"Oh, he's a new member of the order—initiated last month. He's
learning to be a sleep-hater, like the rest of us. He's recording the
right-of-way."

"What's in the air? None of us know. We didn't even know Murray's
whereabouts—thought he was in Kyak, until he sounded the tocsin from
New York. The other boys have quit their jobs and I've sold my
practice."

"It's a railroad!"

Dr. Gray grinned. "Well! That's the tone I use when I break the
news that it's a girl instead of a boy."

"It's a railroad," Slater repeated, "up the Salmon River!"

"Good Lord! What about those glaciers?"

"Oh, it ain't so much the glaciers and the floating icebergs and
the raging chasms and the quaking tundra—Murray thinks he can
overcome them—it's the mosquitoes and the Copper Trust that are
going to figure in this enterprise. One of 'em will be the death of
me, and the other will bust Murray s if he don't look out. Say, my
neck is covered with bumps till it feels like a dog- collar of seed
pearls."

"Do you think we'll have a fight?" asked the doctor, hopefully.

"A fight! It'll be the worst massacre since the Little Big Horn.
We're surrounded already, and no help in sight."

O'Neil found his "boys" awaiting him when he returned to his room.
There was Mellen, lean, gaunt and serious-minded, with the dust of
Chihuahua still upon his shoes; there were McKay, the superintendent,
who had arrived from California that morning; Sheldon, the commissary
man; Elkins; "Doc" Gray; and "Happy Tom" Slater. Parker, the chief
engineer, alone was absent.

"I sent Appleton in from Cortez," he told them, "to come down the
river and make the preliminary survey into Omar. He cables me that he
has filed his locations and everything is O. K. On my way East I
stopped here long enough to buy the Omar cannery, docks, buildings,
and town site. It's all mine, and it will save us ninety days' work in
getting started."

"What do you make of that tundra between Omar and the canon?"
queried McKay, who had crossed the Salmon River delta and knew its
character. "It's like calf's-foot jelly—a man bogs down to his waist
in it."

"We'll fill and trestle," said O'Neil.

"We couldn't move a pile-driver twenty feet."

"It's frozen solid in winter."

McKay nodded. "We'll have to drive steam points ahead of every
pile, I suppose, and we'll need Eskimos to work in that cold, but I
guess we can manage somehow."

"That country is like an apple pie," said Tom Slater—"it's better
cold than hot. There's a hundred inches of rainfall at Omar in summer.
We'll all have web feet when we get out."

Sheldon, the light-hearted commissary man, spoke up. "If it's as
wet as all that, well need Finns—instead of Eskimos." He was
promptly hooted into silence.

"I understand those glaciers come down to the edge of the river,"
the superintendent ventured.

"They do!" O'Neil acknowledged, "and they're the liveliest ones I
ever saw. Tom can answer for that. One of them is fully four hundred
feet high at the face and four miles across. They're constantly
breaking, too."

"Lumps bigger than this hotel," supplemented Slater. "It's quite a
sight—equal to anything in the state of Maine."

O'Neil laughed with the others at this display of sectional pride,
and then explained: "The problem of passing them sounds difficult, but
in reality it isn't. If those other engineers had looked over the
ground as I did, instead of relying entirely upon hearsay, we wouldn't
be meeting here to-day. Of course I realized that we couldn't build a
road over a moving river of ice, nor in front of one, for that matter,
but I discovered that Nature had made us one concession. She placed
her glaciers on opposite sides of the valley, to be sure, but she
placed the one that comes in from the east bank slightly higher
upstream than the one that comes in from the west. They don't really
face each other, although from the sea they appear to do so. You see
the answer?" His hearers nodded vigorously. "If we cross the river,
low down, by a trestle, and run up the east bank past Jackson glacier
until we are stopped by Garfield—the upper one—then throw a bridge
directly across, and back to the side we started from, we miss them
both and have the river always between them and us. Above the upper
crossing there will be a lot of heavy rock work to do, but nothing
unusual, and, once through the gorge, we come out into the valley,
where the other roads run in from Cortez. They cross three divides,
while we run through on a one-per-cent grade. That will give us a
downhill pull on all heavy freight." "Sounds as simple as a pair of
suspenders, doesn't it?" inquired Slater. "But wait till you see it.
The gorge below Niagara is stagnant water compared with the cataract
above those glaciers. It takes two looks to see the top of the
mountains. And those glaciers themselves—Well! Language just gums up
and sticks when it comes to describing them."

Mellen, the bridge-builder, spoke for the first time, and the
others listened.

"As I understand it we will cross the river between the glaciers
and immediately below the upper one."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head. "We can't build piers to withstand those heavy
bergs which you tell me are always breaking off."

"I'll explain how we can," said O'Neil. "You've hit the bull's-
eye—the tender spot in the whole enterprise. While the river is
narrow and rapid in front of Jackson—the lower glacier—opposite
Garfield there is a kind of lake, formed, I suppose, when the glacier
receded from its original position. Now then, here lies the joker, the
secret of the whole proposition. This lake is deep, but there is a
shallow bar across its outlet which serves to hold back all but the
small bergs. This gives us a chance to cross in safety. At first I was
puzzled to discover why only the ice from the lower glacier came
down-river; then, when I realized the truth, I knew I had the key to
Alaska in my hands. We'll cross just below this bar. Understand? Of
course it all depends upon Parker's verdict, but I'm so sure his will
agree with mine that I've made my preparations, bought Omar and
gathered you fellows together. We're going to spring the biggest coup
in railroad history."

"Where's the money coming from?" Slater inquired, bluntly.

"I'm putting in my own fortune." "How much is that? I'm dead to
all sense of modesty, you see."

"About a million dollars," said O'Neil.

"Humph! That won't get us started."

"I've raised another million in New York." The chief was smiling
and did not seem to resent this inquisitiveness in the least.

"Then—why in blazes are you starting it?" demanded Slater in a
bewilderment which the others evidently shared. "It's one thing to
build a railroad on a contractor's commission, but it's another thing
to build it and pay your own way as you go along. Half a railroad
ain't any good."

"Once my right-of-way is filed it will put those projects from
Cortez out of business. No one but an imbecile would think of
building in from there with the Omar route made possible. Before we
come to that Salmon River bridge the Copper Trust will have to buy us
out!"

"That's language!" said "Happy Tom" in sudden admiration. "Those
are words I understand. I withdraw my objections and give my consent
to the deal."

They were deep in their discussion when the telephone broke in
noisily. Sheldon, being nearest to the instrument, answered it.
"There's a newspaper reporter downstairs to interview you," he
announced, after an instant.

"I don't grant interviews," O'Neil said, sharply. He could not
guess by what evil chance the news of his plans had leaked out.

"Nothing doing!" Sheldon spoke into the transmitter. He turned
again to his employer. "Operator says the party doesn't mind
waiting."

O'Neil frowned impatiently.

"Throw him out!" Sheldon directed, brusquely, then suddenly
dropped the receiver as if it had burnt his fingers. "Hell! It's a
woman, Murray! She's on the wire. She thanks you sweetly and says
she'll wait."

"A woman! A newspaper woman!" O'Neil rose and seized the
instrument roughly. His voice was freezing as he said: "Hello! I
refuse to be interviewed. Yes! There's no use_-" His tone suddenly
altered. "Miss Appleton! I beg your pardon. I'll be right down."
Turning to his subordinates, he announced with a wry smile: "This
seems to terminate our interview. She's Dan Appleton's sister, and
therefore—" He shrugged resignedly. "Now run along. I'll see you in
the morning."

His "boys" made their way down to the street, talking guardedly as
they went. All were optimistic save Slater, whose face remained
shrouded in its customary gloom.

"It's impossible! Of course WE'LL do it, but it's impossible, just
the same. It will mean a scrap, too, like none of us ever saw, and I
was raised in a logging-camp where fighting is the general recreation.
If I was young, like the rest of you, I wouldn't mind; but I'm
old—and my digestion's gone. I can't hardly take care of myself any
more, Doc. I'm too feeble to fight or—" He signaled a passing car; it
failed to stop and he rushed after it, dodging vehicles with the
agility of a rabbit and swinging his heavy war-bag as if it weighed no
more than a good resolution.

O'Neil entered the ladies' parlor with a feeling of extreme
annoyance, expecting to meet an inquisitive, bold young woman bent
upon exploiting his plans and his personality in the usual inane
journalistic fashion. He was surprised and offended that Dan Appleton,
in whom he had reposed the utmost faith, should have betrayed his
secret. Publicity was a thing he detested at all times, and at present
he particularly dreaded its effect. But he was agreeably surprised in
the girl who came toward him briskly with hand outstretched.

Miss Appleton was her brother's double; she had his frank blue
eyes, his straw-gold hair, his humorous smile and wide-awake look.
She was not by any means beautiful!—her features were too irregular,
her nose too tip-tilted, her mouth too generous for that—but she
seemed crisp, clean-cut, and wholesome What first struck O'Neil was
her effect of boyishness. From the crown of her plain straw "sailor"
to the soles of her sensible walking-boots there was no suggestion of
feminine frippery. She wore a plain shirtwaist and a tailored skirt,
and her hair was arranged simply. The wave in its pale gold was the
only concession to mere prettiness. Yet she gave no impression of
deliberate masculinity. She struck one as merely not interested in
clothes, instinctively expressing in her dress her own boyish
directness and her businesslike absorption in her work.

"You're furious, of course; anybody would be," she began, then
laughed so frankly that his eyes softened and the wrinkles at their
corners deepened.

"I fear I was rude before I learned you were Dan's sister," he
apologized. "But you see I'm a bit afraid of newspaper people."

"I knew you'd struggle—although Dan described you as a perfectly
angelic person."

"Indeed!"

"But I'm a real reporter, so I won't detain you long. I don't care
where you were born or where you went to school, or what patent
breakfast-food you eat. Tell me, are you going to build another
railroad?"

"Possibly! There seems to be an opportunity there—but Dan has
probably told you as much about that as I am at liberty to tell. He's
been over the ground."

She pursed her lips at him. "You know very well, or you ought to
know, that Dan wouldn't tell me a thing while he's working for you.
He hasn't said a word, but—Is that why you came in frowning like a
thunder-cloud? Did you think he set me on your trail?"

"I think I do know that he wouldn't do anything really
indiscreet." Murray regarded her with growing favor. There was
something about this boyish girl which awakened the same spontaneous
liking he had felt upon his first meeting with her brother. He
surprised her by confessing boldly:

"I AM building a railroad—to the interior of Alaska. I've been
east and raised the money, my men are here; we'll begin operations at
once."

"That's what Mr. Gordon told me about his scheme, but he hasn't
done much, so far."

"My line will put his out of business, also that of the Trust, and
the various wildcat promoters."

"Where does your road start from?"

"The town of Omar, on King Phillip Sound, near Hope and Cortez. It
will run up the Salmon River and past the glaciers which those other
men refused to tackle."

"If I weep, it is for joy," said the girl. "I don't like Curtis
Gordon. I call him Simon Legree."

"Why?"

"Well, he impresses me as a real old-time villain—with the
riding-boots and the whip and all that. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' is my
favorite play, it's so funny. This is a big story you've given me,
Mr. O'Neil."

"I realize that."

"It has the biggest news value of anything Alaskan which has
'broken' for some time. I think you are a very nice person to
interview, after all."

"You asked me. I told you because you are Dan Appleton's sister.
Nevertheless, I don't want it made public."

"Let's sit down," said the girl with a laugh. "To tell you the
truth, I didn't come here to interview you for my paper. I'm afraid
I've tried your patience awfully." A faint flush tinged her clear
complexion. "I just came, really, to get some news of Dan."

"He's perfectly well and happy, and you'll see him in a few days."
Miss Appleton nodded. "So he wrote, but I couldn't wait! Now won't you
tell me all about him—not anything about his looks and his health,
but little unimportant things that will mean something. You see, I'm
his mother and his sister and his sweetheart."

O'Neil did as he was directed and before long found himself
reciting the details of that trying trip up the Salmon River. He told
her how he had sent the young engineer out to run the preliminary
survey for the new railroad, and added: "He is in a fair way to
realize his ambition of having you with him all the time. I'm sure
that will please you."

"And it is my ambition to make enough money to have him with me,"
she announced. With an air of some importance she continued: "I'll
tell you a secret: I'm writing for the magazines—stories!" She sat
back awaiting his enthusiasm. When she saw that it was not forthcoming
she exclaimed: "My! How you do rave over the idea!"

"I congratulate you, of course, but—"

"Now don't tell me that you tried it once. Of course you did. I
know it's a harmless disease, like the measles, and that everybody
has it when they're young. Above all, don't volunteer the information
that your own life is full of romance and would make a splendid novel.
They all say that."

Murray O'Neil felt the glow of personal interest that results from
the discovery in another of a congenial sense of humor.

"I didn't suppose you had to write," he said. "Dan told me you had
invested your fortune and were on Easy Street."

"That was poetic license. I fictionized slightly in my report to
him because I knew he was doing so well."

"Yes, I shall. My experience may help you to avoid the pitfalls of
high finance. Well, then, it was a very sad little fortune, to begin
with, like a boy in grammar-school—just big enough to be of no
assistance. But even a boy's-size fortune looked big to me. I wanted
to invest it in something sure—no national-bank stock, subject to the
danger of an absconding cashier, mind you; no government bonds with
the possibility of war to depreciate them; but something stable and
agricultural, with the inexhaustible resources of nature back of it.
This isn't my own language. I cribbed it from the apple-man."

"Apple-man?"

"Yes. He had brown eyes, and a silky mustache, and a big
irrigation plan over east of the mountains. You gave him your money
and he gave you a perfectly good receipt. Then he planted little apple
trees. He nursed them tenderly for five years, after which he turned
them over to you with his blessing, and you lived happily for
evermore. At least that was the idea. You couldn't fail to grow rich,
for the water always bubbled through his little ditch and it never
froze nor rained to spoil things, I used to love apples. And then
there was my name, which seemed a good omen. But lately I've
considered changing 'Appleton' to 'Berry' or 'Plummer' or some other
kind of fruit."

"I infer that the scheme failed." O'Neil's eyes were half closed
with amusement.

"Yes. It was a good scheme, too, except for the fact that the
irrigation ditch ran uphill, and that there wasn't any water where it
started from, and that apples never had been made to grow in that
locality because of something in the soil, and that Brown-eyed Betty's
title to the land wouldn't hold water any more than the ditch.
Otherwise I'm sure he'd have made a success and I'd have spent my
declining years in a rocking-chair under the falling apple blossoms,
eating Pippins and Jonathans and Northern Spies. I can't bear to touch
them now. Life at my boarding-house is one long battle against apple
pies, apple puddings, apple tapioca. Ugh! I hate the very word."

"I can understand your aversion," laughed O'Neil. "I wonder if you
would let me order dinner for both of us, provided I taboo fruit.
Perhaps I'll think of something more to tell you about Dan. I'm sure
he wouldn't object—"

"Oh, my card is all the chaperon I need; it takes me everywhere
and renders me superior to the smaller conventionalities." She handed
him one, and he read:

ELIZA V. APPLETON

THE REVIEW

"May I ask what the 'V' stands for?" He held up the card between
his thumb and finger.

Miss Appleton blushed, for all the world like a boy, then
answered, stiffly:

"It stands for Violet. But that isn't my fault, and I'm doing my
best to live it down."

"You know very well we wouldn't fire you. But you haven't had a
vacation for three years, and you need a rest."

"I thought I was looking extremely well, for me."

"We're going to send you on an assignment—to Alaska—if you'll
go."

"I'm thinking of quitting newspaper-work for good. The magazines
pay better, and I'm writing a book."

"I know. Perhaps this will just fit in with your plans, for it has
to do with your pet topic of conservation. Those forestry stories of
yours and the article on the Water Power Combination made a hit,
didn't they?"

"I judge so. Anyhow the magazine people want more."

"Good! Here's your chance to do something big for yourself and for
us. Those Alaskan coal claimants have been making a great effort in
Washington to rush their patents through, and there seems to be some
possibility of their succeeding unless the public wakes up. We want to
show up the whole fraudulent affair, show how the entries were
illegal, and how the agents of the Trust are trying to put over the
greatest steal of the century. It's the Heidlemanns that are back of
it—and a few fellows like Murray O'Neil."

"O'Neil!"

"You know him, don't you?"

"Yes. I interviewed him a year ago last spring, when he started
his railroad."

"He's fighting for one of the biggest and richest groups of
claims. He's backed by some Eastern people. It's the psychological
moment to expose both the railroad and the coal situation, for the
thieves are fighting among themselves—Gordon, O'Neil, and the
Heidlemanns."

"Mr. O'Neil is no thief," said the girl, shortly.

"Of course not. He's merely trying to snatch control of an empire,
and to grab ten million dollars' worth of coal, for nothing. That's
not theft, it's financial genius! Fortunately, however, the public is
rousing itself—coming to regard its natural resources as its own and
not the property of the first financier who lays hold of them. Call it
what you will, but give us the true story of the Kyak coal and, above
all, the story of the railroad battle. Things are growing bitter up
there already, and they're bound to get rapidly worse. Give us the
news and we'll play it up big through our Eastern syndicate. You can
handle the magazine articles in a more dignified way, if you choose.
A few good vigorous, fearless, newspaper stories, written by some one
on the ground, will give Congress such a jolt that no coal patents
will be issued this season and no Government aid will be given to the
railroads. You get the idea?"

"Certainly! But it will take time to do all that."

"Spend a year at it if necessary. The Review is fighting for a
principle; it will back you to any extent. Isn't it worth a year, two
years, of hard labor, to awaken the American people to the knowledge
that they are being robbed of their birthright? I have several men
whom I could send, but I chose you because your work along this line
has given you a standing. This is your chance, Eliza—to make a big
reputation and to perform a real service to the country. It's a chance
that may never come your way again. Will you go?"

"Of course I'll go."

"I knew you would. You're all business, and that's what makes a
hit in this office. You're up against a tough proposition, but I can
trust you to make good on it. You can't fail if you play one interest
against the other, for they're all fighting like Kilkenny cats. The
Heidlemanns are a bunch of bandits; Gordon is a brilliant,
unscrupulous promoter; O'Neil is a cold, shrewd schemer with more
brains and daring than any of the others—he showed that when he
walked in there and seized the Salmon River canon. He broke up all
their plans and set the Copper Trust by the ears, but I understand
they've got him bottled up at last. Here's your transportation—on
Saturday's steamer." The editor shook Miss Appleton's hand warmly as
she rose. "Good luck, Eliza! Remember, we won't balk, no matter how
lively your stuff is. The hotter the better—and that's what the
magazines want, too. If I were you, I'd gum-shoe it. They're a rotten
crowd and they might send you back if they got wise."

"I think not," said Eliza, quietly.

The town of Omar lay drenched in mist as the steamer bearing the
representative of The Review drew in at the dock. The whole region
was sodden and rain-soaked, verdant with a lush growth. No summer sun
shone here, to bake sprouting leaves or sear tender grasses. Beneath
the sheltering firs a blanket of moss extended over hill and vale,
knee-deep and treacherous to the foot. The mountain crests were white,
and down every gully streamed water from the melting snows. The
country itself lay on end, as if crumpled by some giant hand, and
presented a tropical blend of colors. There was the gray of fog and
low-swept clouds, the dense, dark green of the spruces, underlaid with
the richer, lighter shades where the summer vegetation rioted. And
running through it all were the shimmering, silent reaches of the
sound.

Omar itself was a mushroom city, sprung up by magic, as if the
dampness at its roots had caused it to rise overnight. A sawmill
shrieked complainingly; a noisy switch-engine shunted rows of flat
cars back and forth, tooting lustily; the rattle of steam- winches and
the cries of stevedores from a discharging freighter echoed against
the hillsides. Close huddled at the water-front lay the old cannery
buildings, greatly expanded and multiplied now and glistening with
fresh paint. Back of them again lay the town, its stumpy, half-graded
streets terminating in the forest like the warty feelers of a stranded
octopus. Everywhere was hurry and confusion, and over all was the
ever-present shroud of mist which thickened into showers or parted
reluctantly to let the sun peep through.

Dan Appleton, his clothing dewy from the fog, his cheeks bronzed
by exposure, was over the rail before the ship had made fast, and had
Eliza in his arms, crushing her with the hug of a bear.

"Come up to the house, Sis, quick!" he cried, when the first
frenzy of greeting was over—"your house and mine!" His eyes were
dancing, his face was alight with eagerness.

"But, Danny," she laughed, squeezing his arm tenderly, "you live
with Mr. O'Neil and all those other men in a horrible, crawling
bunk-house."

"Oh, do I? I'll have you know that our bunk-houses don't crawl.
And besides—But wait! It's a s'prise."

"A s'prise?" she queried, eagerly. "For me?"

He nodded.

"Tell me what it is, quick! You know I never could wait for
s'prises."

"Well, it's a brand-new ultra-stylish residence for just you and
me. When the chief heard you were coming he had a cottage built."

"Danny! It was only five days ago that I cabled you!"

"That's really ten days for us, for you see we never sleep. It is
finished and waiting, and your room is in white, and the paint will
be dry to-morrow. He's a wonder!"

Remembering the nature of her mission, Eliza demurred. "I'm afraid
I can't live there, Dan. You know"—she hesitated—"I may have to
write some rather dreadful things about him."

"What?" Dan's face fell. "You are going to attack the chief! I had
no idea of that!" He looked genuinely distressed and a little stern.

She laid a pleading hand upon his arm. "Forgive me, Dan," she
said. "I knew how you would feel, and, to tell the truth, I don't
like that part of it one bit. But it was my big chance—the sort of
thing I have been waiting years for. I couldn't bear to miss it."
There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. "I didn't think it all
out. I just came. Things get awfully mixed, don't they? Of course I
wouldn't attack him unfairly, but I do believe in conservation—and
what could I do but come here to you?"

Dan smiled to reassure her. "Perhaps you won't feel like
excoriating him when you learn more about things. I know you wouldn't
be unfair. You'd flunk the job first. Wait till you talk to him. But
you can't refuse his kindness, for a time at least. There's nowhere
else for you to stay, and Murray would pick you up and put you into
the cottage, muck-rake and all, if I didn't. He had to go out on the
work this morning or he'd have been here to welcome you. He sent
apologies and said a lot of nice things, which I've forgotten."

"Well"—Eliza still looked troubled—"all right. But wait," she
cried, with a swift change of mood. "I've made a little friend, the
dearest, the most useless creature! We shared the same stateroom and
we're sisters. She actually says I'm pretty, so of course I'm her
slave for life." She hurried away in the midst of Dan's loyal
protestations that she WAS pretty—more beautiful than the stars, more
pleasing to the eye than the orchids of Brazil. A moment later she
reappeared to present Natalie Gerard.

Dan greeted the new arrival with a cordiality in which there was a
trace of shyness unusual with him. "We've made quite a change since
you were up here, Miss Gerard," he remarked. "The ships stop first at
Omar now, you see. I trust it won't inconvenience you."

"Not in the least," said Natalie. "I shall arrive at Hope quite
soon enough." "Omar Khayyam is out in the wilderness somewhere,"
Eliza informed her girl friend, "with his book of verses and his jug
of wine, I suppose."

"Mr. O'Neil?"

"Yes. But he'll be back soon, and meanwhile you are to come up and
see our paradise."

He led the two girls ashore and up through the town to a moss-
green bungalow, its newness attested by the yellow sawdust and fresh
shavings which lay about. Amid their exclamations of delight he showed
them the neatly furnished interior, and among other wonders a bedroom
daintily done in white, with white curtains at the mullioned windows
and a suite of wicker furniture.

"Where he dug all that up I don't know," Dan said, pointing to the
bed and dresser and chairs. "He must have had it hidden out
somewhere."

Eliza surveyed this chamber with wondering eyes. "It makes me feel
quite ashamed," she said, "though, of course, he did it for Dan. When
he discovers my abominable mission he'll probably set me out in the
rain and break all my lead-pencils. But—isn't he magnificent?"

"He quite overwhelms one," Natalie agreed. "Back in New York, he's
been sending me American Beauties every week for more than a year.
It's his princely way." She colored slightly, despite the easy
frankness of her manner.

"You see, Natalie! The man is a viper. If he let his beard grow
I'm sure we'd see it was blue."

"You shall have an opportunity of judging," came O'Neil's voice
from behind them, and he entered with hands outstretched, smiling at
their surprise. When he had expressed his pleasure at Natalie's
presence and had bidden both her and Eliza welcome to Omar, he
explained:

"I've just covered eighteen miles on a railroad tricycle and my
back is broken. The engines were busy, but I came, anyhow, hoping to
arrive before the steamer. Now what is this I hear about my beard?"

It was Eliza's turn to blush, and she outdid Natalie.

"They were raving about your gallantry," said Dan with all a
brother's ruthlessness, "until I told them it was merely a habit of
mind with you; then Sis called you a Bluebeard."

O'Neil smiled, stroking his stubbly chin. "You see it's only
gray."

"I—don't see," said Eliza, still flushing furiously.

"You would if I continued to let it grow."

"Hm-m! I think, myself, it's a sort of bluish gray," said Dan.

"You are still working miracles," Natalie told O'Neil, an hour
later, while he was showing his visitors the few sights of Omar—
"miracles of kindness, as usual."

Dan and his sister were following at a distance, arm in arm and
chattering like magpies.

"No, no! That cottage is nothing. Miss Appleton had to have some
place to stop."

"This all seems like magic." Natalie paused and looked over the
busy little town. "And to think you have done it in a year."

"It was not I who did it; the credit belongs to those 'boys' of
whom I told you. They are all here, by the way—Parker, McKay,
Mellen, Sheldon, 'Doc' Gray—he has the hospital, you know."

"And Mr. Slater?"

"Oh, we couldn't exist without 'Happy Tom'! No, the only miracle
about all this is the loyalty that has made it possible. It is that
which has broken all records in railroad-building; that's what has
pushed our tracks forward until we're nearly up to one of Nature's
real miracles. You shall see those glaciers, one of these days.
Sometimes I wonder if even the devotion of those men will carry us
through the final test. But—you shall meet them all, to-night—my
whole family."

"I can't. The ship leaves this afternoon."

"I've arranged to send you to Hope in my motor-boat, just as Mr.
Gordon sent me on my way a year ago. You will stay with the Appletons
to-night and help at the house-warming, then Dan will take you on in
the morning. Women are such rare guests at Omar that we refuse to part
with them. You agree?"

"How can I refuse? Your word seems to be law here. I'll send word
to mother by the ship that I am detained by royal decree."

She spoke with a gaiety that seemed a little forced, and at
mention of her departure a subtle change had come over her face.
O'Neil realized that she had matured markedly since his last meeting
with her; there was no longer quite the same effect of naive
girlishness.

"This was a very unhappy year for your loyal subject, Mr. O'Neil."

"I'm sorry," he declared with such genuine kindliness that she was
moved to confide in him.

"Mother and I are ruined."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"It's merely—those wretched coal claims. I have a friend in the
Land Office at Washington, and, remembering what you said, I asked
him to look them up. I knew no other way to go about it. He tells me
that something was done, or was not done, by us, and that we have lost
all we put in."

"I urged Gordon to obey that ruling, last spring." Natalie saw
that his face was dark with indignation, and the knowledge that he
really cared set her heart to pounding gratefully. She was half
tempted to tell about that other, that greater trouble which had
stolen in upon her peace of mind and robbed her of her girlhood, but
she shrank from baring her wounds—above all, a wound so vital and so
personal as this.

"Does your mother know?" he queried.

"No, I preferred to tell her in Mr. Gordon's presence." Murray
noticed that she no longer called the man uncle. "But now that the
time has come, I'm frightened."

"Never allow yourself to be afraid. Fear is something false; it
doesn't exist."

"It seems to me he was—unfaithful to his trust. Am I right?"

"That is something you must judge for yourself," he told her,
gravely. "You see, I don't know anything about the reasons which
prompted him to sacrifice your rights. He may have had very good
reasons. I dare say he had. In building this railroad I have felt but
one regret; that is the indirect effect it may have upon you and your
mother. Your affairs are linked closely with Gordon's and the success
of my enterprise will mean the failure of his."

"You mustn't feel that way. I'm sure it won't affect us at all,
for we have nothing more to lose. Sometimes I think his judgment is
faulty, erratic, wonderful man though he is. Mother trusts him
blindly, of course, and so do I, yet I hardly know what to do. It is
impossible that he did worse than make a mistake."

Her dark eyes were bent upon Murray and they were eloquent with
the question which she could not bring herself to ask. He longed to
tell her frankly that Curtis Gordon was a charlatan, or even worse,
and that his fairest schemes were doomed to failure by the very nature
of his methods, but instead he said:

"I'm deeply distressed. I hope things are not as bad as you think
and that Mr. Gordon will be able to straighten them out for you. If
ever I can be of service you must be sure to call upon me."

Her thanks were conventional, but in her heart was a deep, warm
gratitude, for she knew that he meant what he said and would not fail
her.

Dan Appleton, eying Natalie and his chief from a distance,
exclaimed, admiringly:

"She's a perfect peach, Sis. She registered a home run with me the
first time at bat."

"She IS nice."

"You know a fellow gets mighty lonely in a place like this. She'd
make a dandy sister-in-law for you, wouldn't she?"

"Forget it!" said Eliza, sharply. "That's rank insubordination.
Omar Khayyam snatched her from the briny and tried to die for her. He
has bought her two acres of the most expensive roses and he remembers
the date of her birthday. Just you keep your hands off."

"How does she feel about him?"

"Oh, she heroizes him, of course. I don't know just how deep the
feeling goes, but I got the impression that it was pretty serious.
Two women can't borrow hair-pins and mix powder puffs for a week and
remain strangers."

"Then, as for Daniel Appleton, C.E., GOOD NIGHT!" exclaimed her
brother, ruefully. "If I were a woman I'd marry him myself, provided
I could get ahead of the rush; but, being a male of the species, I
suppose I shall creep out into the jungle and sulk."

"Right-o! Don't enter this race, for I'm afraid you'd be a bad
loser! Personally I can't see anything in him to rave about. What
scares me pink is the knowledge that I must tell him the wretched
business that brings me here. If he strikes me, Danny, remember I'm
still your sister."

When the big gong gave the signal for luncheon Appleton conducted
Natalie and Eliza to the company messroom, where the field and office
force dined together, and presented them to his fellow- lieutenants.
At supper-time those who had been out on the line during the day were
likewise introduced, and after a merry meal the whole party escorted
the two girls back to the green bungalow.

"Why, here's a piano!" Eliza exclaimed upon entering the parlor.

"I borrowed it for the evening from the Elite Saloon," O'Neil
volunteered. "It's a dissipated old instrument, and some of its teeth
have been knocked out—in drunken brawls, I'm afraid—but the owner
vouched for its behavior on this occasion."

"It knows only one tune—'I Won't Go Home until Morning,'" Dan
declared.

McKay, however, promptly disproved this assertion by seating
himself at the keyboard and rattling off some popular melodies. With
music and laughter the long twilight fled, for O'Neil's "boys" flung
themselves into the task of entertaining his guests with whole-souled
enthusiasm.

So successful were their efforts that even "Happy Tom" appeared to
derive a mild enjoyment from them, which was a testimonial indeed. His
pleasure was made evident by no word of praise, nor faintest smile,
but rather by the lightened gloom in which he chewed his gum and by
the fact that he complained of nothing. In truth, he was not only
entertained by the general gaiety, but he was supremely interested in
Miss Appleton, who resembled no creature he had ever seen. He had met
many girls like Natalie, and feared them, but Eliza, with her
straightforward airs and her masculine mannerisms, was different. She
affected him in a way at once pleasant and disagreeable. He felt no
diffidence in speaking to her, for instance—a phenomenon which was in
itself a ground for suspicion. Then, too, her clothes—he could not
take his eyes off her clothes—were almost like Dan's. That seemed to
show common sense, but was probably only the sign of an eccentric,
domineering nature. On the other hand, the few words she addressed to
him were gracious, and her eyes had a merry twinkle which warmed his
heart. She must be all right, he reluctantly concluded, being Dan's
sister and O'Neil's friend. But deep down in his mind he cherished a
doubt.

At her first opportunity Eliza undertook to make that confession
the thought of which had troubled her all the afternoon. Drawing
O'Neil aside, she began with some trepidation, "Have you any idea why
I'm here?"

"I supposed either you or Dan had achieved your pet ambition."

"Far from it. I have a fell purpose, and when you learn what it is
I expect you to move the piano out—that's what always happens in the
play when the heroine is dispossessed. Well, then, I've been sent by
The Review to bare all the disgraceful secrets of your life!"

"I'm delighted to learn you'll be here so long. You can't possibly
finish that task before next spring." His manner, though quizzical,
was genuinely hearty.

"Don't laugh!" said the girl. "There's nothing funny about it. I
came north as a spy."

"Then you're a Northern Spy!"

"Apples!" she cried. "You remembered, didn't you? I never supposed
men like you could be flippant. Well, here goes for the worst." She
outlined her conversation with the editor of her paper.

"So you think I'm trying to steal Alaska," he said when she had
concluded.

"That seems to be the general idea."

"It's a pretty big job."

"Whoever controls transportation will have the country by the
throat."

"Yet somebody must build railroads, since the Government won't.
Did it ever occur to you that there is a great risk involved in a
thing of this sort, and that capital must see a profit before it
enters a new field? I wonder if you know how badly this country needs
an outlet and how much greater the benefit in dollars and cents will
be to the men in the interior than to those who finance the road. But
I perceive that you are a conservationist."

"Rabid!" Eliza bridled a little at the hint of amused superiority
in his voice. "I'm a suffragist, too! I dare say that adds to your
disgust."

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I have no quarrel with conservation nor
with 'votes for women.' Neither have I anything to conceal. I'm only
afraid that, like most writers, you will be content with
half-information. Incomplete facts are responsible for most
misunderstandings. If you are in earnest and will promise to take the
time necessary to get at all the facts, I'll make an agreement with
you."

"I promise! Time and a typewriter are my only assets. I don't
intend to be hurried."

Dan approached, drawn by the uncomfortable knowledge of his
sister's predicament, and broke in:

"Oh, Sis has time to burn! She's going to write a book on the
salmon canneries while she's here. It's bound to be one of the 'six
best smellers'!"

O'Neil waved him away with the threat of sending him out among the
mosquitoes.

"I'll agree to show you everything we're doing."

"Even to the coal-fields?"

"Even to them. You shall know everything, then you can write what
you please."

"And when I've exposed you to the world as a commercial
pickpocket, as a looter of the public domain—after Congress has
appropriated your fabulous coal claims—will you nail up the door of
this little cottage, and fire Dan?"

"No."

"Will you still be nice to me?"

"My dear child, you are my guest. Come and go when and where you
will. Omar is yours so long as you stay, and when you depart in
triumph, leaving me a broken, discredited wretch, I shall stand on
the dock and wave you a bon voyage. Now it's bedtime for my 'boys,'
since we rise at five o'clock."

"Heavens! Five! Why the sun isn't up at that time!"

"The sun shines very little here; that's why we want you to stay
at Omar. I wish we might also keep Miss Natalie."

When the callers had gone Eliza told Natalie and Dan:

"He took it so nicely that I feel more ashamed than ever. One
would think he didn't care at all. Do you suppose he does?"

"There's no denying that you appeared at an unfortunate time,"
said her brother.

"Why?"

"Well—I'm not sure we'll ever succeed with this project. Parker
says the glacier bridge can be built, but the longer he studies it
the graver he gets. It's making an old man of him."

"What does Mr. O'Neil say?"

"Oh, he's sanguine, as usual. He never gives up. But he has other
things to worry him—money! It's money, money, all the time. He
wasn't terribly rich, to begin with, and he has used up all his own
fortune, besides what the other people put in. You see, he never
expected to carry the project so far; he believed the Trust would buy
him out."

"Well?"

"It hasn't and it evidently doesn't intend to. When it learned of
his plan, its engineers beat it out to the glaciers and looked them
over. Then they gave up their idea of building in from Cortez, but
instead of making terms with us, they moved their whole outfit down to
Kyak Bay, right alongside of the coal- fields, and now it has become a
race to the glaciers, with Gordon fighting us on the side just to make
matters lively. The Trust has the shorter route, but we have the
start."

"Why didn't Mr. O'Neil take Kyak as a terminus, instead of Omar?"

"He says it's not feasible. Kyak is an open harbor, and he says no
breakwater can be built there to withstand the storms. He still clings
to that belief, although the Trust is actually building one. If they
succeed we're cooked. Meanwhile he's rushing work and straining every
nerve to raise more money. Now you come along with a proposal to
advertise the whole affair to the public as a gigantic graft and set
Congress against him. I think he treated you mighty well, under the
circumstances."

Affairs at Hope were nearly, if not quite, as prosperous as those
at Omar, for Curtis Gordon's advertising had yielded large and quick
returns. His experiment, during the previous summer, of bringing his
richest stockholders north, had been a great success. They had come,
ostensibly at his expense, and once on the ground had allowed
themselves to be fairly hypnotized. They had gone where he led, had
seen what he pointed out, had believed what he told them. Their
imaginations were fired with the grandeur of an undertaking which
would develop the vast resources of the north country for the benefit
of the struggling pioneers of the interior and humanity in general.
Incidentally they were assured over and over again in a great variety
of ways that the profits would be tremendous. Gordon showed them Hope
and its half-completed mine buildings, he showed them the mountain
behind. It was a large mountain. They noticed there were trees on the
sides of it and snow on its top. They marveled. He said its heart was
solid copper ore, and they gasped. Had he told them in the same
impressive manner that the hill contained a vein three inches thick
they would have exhibited the same astonishment. They entered the
dripping tunnels and peered with grave approval at the drills, the
rock-cars and the Montenegrin miners. They rambled over the dumps, to
the detriment of shoe-leather and shins, filling their suit-cases with
samples of perfectly good country rock. They confessed to each other,
with admirable conservatism, that the proposition looked very
promising, very promising indeed, and they listened with appreciation
to Gordon's glowing accounts of his railroad enterprise, the physical
evidence of which consisted of a mile or two of track which shrank
along the steep shore-front and disappeared into a gulch as if ashamed
of itself. He had a wonderful plan to consolidate the mining and
railroad companies and talked of a giant holding corporation which
would share in the profits of each. The details were intricate, but he
seemed to see them all with perfect clearness, and his victims agreed.

He entertained them on a scale that was almost embarrassing, and
when they returned to their homes they outdid one another in their
praise of the financial genius who was leading them to the promised
land of profits and preferred stock. As a matter of course they one
and all advised their friends to buy, vouching for the fabulous
richness of Hope Consolidated, and since their statements were backed
by a personal examination of the property, subscriptions came pouring
in.

All in all, the excursion had proven so profitable that Gordon had
arranged for another, designed to accommodate new investors and
promising "prospects." Preparations for their welcome were under way
when Natalie arrived.

The girl and her mother talked late that evening, and Gordon saw
on the following morning that Gloria, at least, had passed a trying
night; but he gave himself no uneasiness. Emotional storms were not
unusual; he always disregarded them as far as possible, and usually
they passed off quietly. During breakfast he informed them:

"I received a letter from Miss Golden in yesterday's mail. She is
to be one of the new party."

"Did you invite her to return this summer?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Yes!"

"I remember her well," said Natalie—"too well, in fact. I thought
her very bold."

"She is one of our largest investors, and she writes she would
enjoy spending a fortnight here after the others go back."

"Will you allow it?"

"Allow it! My dear Gloria, I can't possibly refuse. In fact it
would be the height of inhospitality not to urge her to do so. She is
welcome to stay as long as she chooses, for these quarters are as much
hers as ours. I hope you will be nice to her."

Mrs. Gerard made no answer, but later in the morning sought Gordon
in his private office.

"I preferred not to discuss the Golden woman before Natalie," she
explained, coldly, "but—you don't really intend to have her here, do
you?"

"Most assuredly!"

"Then I shall have to tell her she is not welcome."

"You will do nothing of the sort, my dear: you will assume the
duties of hostess, for which no one is more charmingly qualified."

Mrs. Gerard's lips were white with anger as she retorted:

"I shall not allow that woman under the same roof with Natalie."

"As usual, you choose the most inconvenient occasion for insisting
upon your personal dislikes."

"My dislike has nothing to do with the matter. I overlooked her
behavior with you last year—as I have overlooked a good many things
in the past—but this is asking too much."

Gordon's coldness matched her own as he said:

"I repeat, this is no time for jealousy—"

"Jealousy! It's an insult to Natalie."

"Miss Golden is one of our largest stockholders."

"That's not true! I had Denny look up the matter."

"So!" Gordon flared up angrily. "Denny has been showing you the
books, eh! He had no more right to do that than you had to pry into
my affairs. While Miss Golden's investment may not be so large as some
others', she has influential friends. She did yeoman service in the
cause, and I can't allow your foolish fancies to interfere with my
plans."

"Fancies!" cried the woman, furiously. "You behaved like a
school-boy with her. It was disgraceful. I refuse to let her
associate with my daughter."

"Aren't we drawing rather fine distinctions?" Gordon's lip curled.
"In the first place, Natalie has no business here. Since she came,
uninvited, for the second time, she must put up with what she finds. I
warned you last summer that she might suspect— "

"She did. She does. She discovered the truth a year ago." Mrs.
Gerard's usually impassive face was distorted and she voiced her
confession with difficulty.

"The devil!" ejaculated Gordon.

The woman nodded. "She accused me last night. I tried to—lie,
but—God! How I have lived through these hours I'll never know."

"Hm-m!" Gordon reflected, briefly. "Perhaps, after all, it's just
as well that she knows; she would have found it out sooner or later,
and there's some satisfaction in knowing that the worst is over."

Never before had his callous cynicism been so frankly displayed.
It chilled her and made the plea she was about to voice seem doubly
difficult.

"I wish I looked upon the matter as you do," she said, slowly.
"But other people haven't the same social ideas as we. I'm— crushed,
and she—Poor child! I don't know how she had the courage to face it.
Now that she has heard the truth from my own lips I'm afraid it will
kill her."

Gordon laughed. "Nonsense! Natalie is a sensible girl.
Disillusionment is always painful, but never fatal. Sooner or later
the young must confront the bald facts of life, and I venture to say
she will soon forget her school-girl morality. Let me explain my views
of—"

"Never!" cried the woman, aghast. "If you do I shall—" She
checked herself and buried her face in her hands. "I feel no regrets
for myself—for I drifted with my eyes open—but this— this is
different. Don't you understand? I am a mother. Or are you dead to all
decent feeling?"

"My dear, I'm the most tender-hearted of men. Of course I shall
say nothing, if you prefer, for I am subservient to your commands in
all things. But calm yourself. What is done cannot be undone."

In more even tones Mrs. Gerard said, "You seem to think the matter
is ended, but it isn't. Natalie will never allow us to continue this
way, and it isn't just to her that we should. We can't go on, Curtis."

"You mean I must marry you?"

She nodded.

He rose and paced the room before answering. "I always supposed
you understood my views on that subject. Believe me, they are
unalterable, and in no way the result of a pose."

"Nevertheless, for my sake and Natalie's you will do it. I can't
lose the one thing I love best in the world."

"It would seem that Natalie has filled your head with silly
notions," he exclaimed, impatiently.

"She has awakened me. I have her life to consider as well as my
own."

"We are all individuals, supreme in ourselves, responsible only to
ourselves. We must all live our own lives; she cannot live yours, nor
you hers."

"I am familiar with your arguments," Mrs. Gerard said, wearily,
"but I have thought this all out and there is no other way."

He frowned in his most impressive manner and his chest swelled
ominously.

"I will not be coerced. You know I can't be bullied into a thing.
I deny that you have any right to demand—"

"I'm not demanding anything. I merely ask this—this favor, the
first one I have ever asked. You see, my pride is crumbling. Don't
answer now; let's wait until we are both calmer. The subject came
up—at least she approached it, by asking about the coal claims. She
is worried about them."

"Indeed?"

"She was told by a friend in the Land Office that our rights had
been forfeited. I assured her—"

"I refused to heed the absurd rulings of the Department, if that
is what she refers to."

"Then we—have lost?" Mrs. Gerard's pallor increased.

"Technically, yes! In reality I shall show that our titles were
good and that our patents should issue."

"But"—the woman's bloodless fingers were tightly interlaced—
"all I have, all Natalie has, is in those claims."

"Yes! And it would require another fortune the size of both to
comply with the senseless vagaries of the Interior Department and to
protect your interests. I grew weary of forever sending good
hard-earned dollars after bad ones, merely because of the shifting
whim of some theorist five thousand miles away."

"Then I am afraid—" Mrs. Gerard's voice trailed out miserably.
"It is all we have, and you told me—"

Gordon broke in irritably: "My dear Gloria, spare me this painful
faultfinding. If I can win for you, I shall do so, and then you will
agree that I acted wisely. If I lose—it will merely be the luck of
the average investor. We played for big returns, and of course the
risks were great."

"But Mr. O'Neil told her his claims—"

Gordon's blazing eyes warned her. "O'Neil, eh? So, he is the
'friend in the Land Office'! No doubt he also gave Natalie the
suggestion that led to her scene with you. Tell her to occupy herself
less with affairs which do not concern her and more with her own
conduct. Her actions with that upstart have been outrageous."

"What about your own actions with the Golden woman?" cried Mrs.
Gerard, reverting with feminine insistence to the subject of their
first difference. "What are you going to do about her?"

"Nothing."

"Remember, I refuse to share the same roof with her. You wouldn't
ask it of your wife."

Now this second reference to a disagreeable subject was
unfortunate. Gordon was given to the widest vagaries of temper, and
this interview had exasperated him beyond measure, for he was strained
by other worries. He exploded harshly:

"Please remember that you are not my wife! My ideas on matrimony
will never change. You ought to know by this time that I am granite."

"I can't give up Natalie. I would give up much, for we women don't
change, but—"

"A fallacy!" He laughed disagreeably. "Pardon me, Gloria, if I
tell you that you do change; that you have changed; that time has
left its imprint upon even you—a cruel fact, but true." He took a
savage pleasure in her trembling, for she had roused all the devils in
him and they were many.

"You are growing tired!"

"Not at all. But you have just voiced the strongest possible
argument against marriage. We grow old! Age brings its alterations! I
have ever been a slave to youth and beauty and the years bring to me
only an increasing appreciation, a more critical judgment, of the
beautiful. If I chose to marry—well, frankly, the mature charms of a
woman of my own age would have slight attraction for me."

"Then—I will go," said Mrs. Gerard, faintly.

"Not by any wish of mine," he assured her. "You are quite welcome
to stay. Things will run along in the usual way—more smoothly,
perhaps, now that we have attained a complete understanding. You have
no place to go, nor means with which to insure a living for yourself
and Natalie. I would hate to see you sacrifice yourself and her to a
Puritanical whim, for I owe you much happiness and I'm sure I should
miss you greatly. Some one must rule, and since nature has given me
the right I shall exercise it. We will have no more rebellion."

Mrs. Gerard left the room dazed and sick with despair.

"We must go! We must go!" she kept repeating, but her tragic look
alarmed Natalie far more than her words.

"Yes, yes!" The girl took her in her arms and tried to still the
ceaseless trembling which shook the mother's frame, while her own
tears fell unheeded.

Mrs. Gerard shook her head slowly. "No! I suppose that must be
part of the price. But—Penniless! Friendless! Where can we go?"

"Mr. O'Neil—my Irish Prince," faltered the daughter through her
tears. "Perhaps he would take us in."

"Omar Khayyam," said Eliza Appleton, entering O'Neil's office
briskly, "you are the general trouble man, so prepare to listen to
mine."

"Won't the kitchen flue draw, or has a hinge come off the bungalow
door?" Murray smiled. He was harassed by endless worries, a dozen
pressing matters called for his instant attention; yet he showed no
trace of annoyance. "If so, I'll be right up and fix it."

"The kitchen chimney has a draught that threatens to draw Dan's
salary out with the smoke every time I cook a meal, and the house is
dandy. This is a real man's-size tribulation, so of course I run to
you. Simon Legree is at his tricks again."

"Legree!"

The girl nodded her blond head vigorously.

"Yes! He's stolen Mrs. St. Claire's slaves, and she and Little Eva
are out in the cold."

"There have been terrible goings-on over at Hope. I went up
yesterday, in my official capacity, to reconnoiter the enemy's
position and to give him a preliminary skirmish, but the great man
was sulking in his tent and sent word by a menial for me to begone or
look out for the bloodhounds. Isn't he the haughty thing? I don't like
to 'begone'—I refuse to git when I'm told, so, of course, I paid my
respects to Natalie and her mother. But what do you think I found?
Mrs. St. Claire desolated, Eva dissolved in tears and her hair down."

"Will you talk sense?"

"Just try a little nonsense, and see. Well, the great eruption has
taken place and the loss of life was terrible. Among those buried in
the cinders are the dusky-eyed heroine and her friend mother. It seems
Eva had a hand in the overseer's exposure—"

"Yes, yes! It's about those coal claims. I knew it was coming."

"She told her mother of the horrid treachery, and mother lugged
the complaint to Gordon and placed it in his lap. Result, confession
and defiance from him. Even the family jewels are gone."

"Is Gordon broke?"

"He's weltering in money, but the coal claims are lost, and he
wants to know what they're going to do about it. The women are
ruined. He magnanimously offers them his bounty, but of course they
refuse to accept it."

"Hasn't he made any provision for them?"

"Coffee and cakes, three times a day. That's all! He won't even
provide transportation, and the troupe can't walk home. They refuse
to stay there, but they can't get away. I've cabled The Review,
overdrawing my salary scandalously, and Dan is eager to help, but the
worst of it is neither of those women knows how to make a living.
Natalie wants to work, but the extent of her knowledge is the knack of
frosting a layer cake, and her mother never even sewed on a button in
all her life. It would make a lovely Sunday story, and it wouldn't
help Curtis Gordon with his stockholders."

"You won't write it, of course!"

"Oh, I suppose not, but it's maddening not to be able to do
something. Since there's a law against manslaughter, the pencil is my
only weapon. I'd like to jab it clear through that ruffian." Eliza's
animated face was very stern, her generous mouth was set firmly.

"You can leave out the personal element," he told her. "There's
still a big story there, if you realize that it runs back to
Washington and involves your favorite policy of conservation. Those
claims belonged to Natalie and her mother. I happen to know that their
locations were legal and that there was never any question of fraud in
the titles, hence they were entitled to patents years ago. Gordon did
wrong, of course, in refusing to obey the orders of the Secretary of
the Interior even though he knew those orders to be senseless and
contradictory, but the women are the ones to suffer. The Government
froze them out. This is only one instance of what delay and indecision
at headquarters has done. I'll show you others before we are through.
As for those two—You say they want to do something?"

"It's not a question of wanting; they've GOT to do something—or
starve. They would scrub kitchens if they knew how."

"HOSTESS! In a railroad-camp hotel! Who ever heard of such a
thing?" Eliza eyed him incredulously.

O'Neil's flush did not go unnoticed as he said, quietly:

"It IS unusual, but we'll try it. She might learn to manage the
business, with a competent assistant. The salary will be ample for
her and Natalie to live on."

Eliza laid a hand timidly upon his arm and said in an altered
tone:

"Omar Khayyam, you're a fine old Persian gentleman! I know what it
will mean to those two poor women, and I know what it will mean to
you, for of course the salary will come out of your pocket."

He smiled down at her. "It's the best I can offer, and I'm sure
you won't tell them."

"Of course not. I know how it feels to lose a fortune, too, for
I've been through the mill—Don't laugh! You have a load on your
shoulders heavier than Mr. Sinbad's, and it's mighty nice of you to
let me add to the burden. I—I hope it won't break your poor back. Now
I'm going up to your bungalow and lock myself into your white bedroom,
and—"

"Have a good cry!" he said, noting the suspicious moisture in her
eyes.

O'Neil's talk with Mrs. Gerard upon her arrival from Hope was
short and businesslike. Neither by word nor look did he show that he
knew or suspected anything of the real reason of her break with
Gordon. Toward both her and Natalie he preserved his customary
heartiness, and their first constraint soon disappeared. Mrs. Gerard
had been plunged in one of those black moods in which it seems that no
possible event can bring even a semblance of happiness, but it was
remarkable how soon this state of mind began to give way before
O'Neil's matter-of-fact cheerfulness. He refused to listen to their
thanks and made them believe that they were conferring a real favor
upon him by accepting the responsibility of the new hotel. Pending the
completion of that structure he was hard pressed to find a
lodging-place for them until Eliza and her brother insisted that they
share the bungalow with them—a thing O'Neil had not felt at liberty
to ask under the circumstances. Nor was the tact of the brother and
sister less than his; they received the two unfortunates as honored
guests.

Gradually the visitors began to feel that they were welcome, that
they were needed, that they had an important task to fulfil, and the
sense that they were really of service drove away depression. Night
after night they lay awake, discussing the wonderful change in their
fortunes and planning their future. Natalie at least had not the
slightest doubt that all their troubles were at an end.

One morning they awoke to learn that O'Neil had gone to the
States, leaving Dr. Gray in charge of affairs at Omar during his
absence. The physician, who was fully in his chief's confidence,
gravely discussed their duties with them, and so discreet was he that
they had no faintest suspicion that he knew their secret. It was
typical of O'Neil and his "boys" that they should show this chivalry
toward two friendless outcasts; it was typical of them, also, that
they one and all constituted themselves protectors of Natalie and her
mother, letting it be known through the town that the slightest
rudeness toward the women would be promptly punished.

While O'Neil's unexpected departure caused some comment, no one
except his trusted lieutenants dreamed of the grave importance of his
mission. They knew the necessities that hounded him, they were well
aware of the trembling insecurity in which affairs now stood, but they
maintained their cheerful industry, they pressed the work with
unabated energy, and the road crept forward foot by foot, as steadily
and as smoothly as if he himself were on the ground to direct it.

Many disappointments had arisen since the birth of the Salmon
River Northwestern; many misfortunes had united to retard the
development of its builder's plans. The first obstacle O'Neil
encountered was that of climate. During the summer, unceasing rains,
mists, and fogs dispirited his workmen and actually cut their
efficiency in half. He had made certain allowances for this, of
course, but no one could have foreseen so great a percentage of
inefficiency as later developed. In winter, the cold was intense and
the snows were of prodigious depth, while outside the shelter of the
Omar hills the winds howled and rioted over the frozen delta, chilling
men and animals and paralyzing human effort. Under these conditions it
was hard to get workmen, and thrice harder to keep them; so that
progress was much slower than had been anticipated.

Then, too, the physical difficulties of the country were almost
insurmountable. The morass which comprised the Salmon River plain was
in summer a bottomless ooze, over which nothing could be transported,
yet in winter it became sheathed with a steel-hard armor against which
piling splintered. It could be penetrated at that season only by the
assistance of steam thawers, which involved delay and heavy expense.
These were but samples of the obstacles that had to be met, and every
one realized that the work thus far had been merely preparatory. The
great obstruction, upon the conquest of which the success of the whole
undertaking hinged, still lay before them.

But of all handicaps the most serious by far was the lack of
capital. Murray had foreseen as inevitable the abandonment by the
Trust of its Cortez route, but its change of base to Kyak had come as
a startling surprise and as an almost crushing blow. Personally, he
believed its present plan to be even more impracticable than its
former one, but its refusal to buy him out had disheartened his
financial associates and tightened their purse-strings into a knot
which no argument of his could loose. He had long since exhausted his
own liquid capital, he had realized upon his every available asset,
and his personal credit was tottering. He was obliged to finance his
operations upon new money—a task which became ever more difficult as
the months passed and the Trust continued its work at Kyak. Yet he
knew that the briefest flagging, even a temporary abandonment of work,
meant swift and utter ruin. His track must go forward, his labor must
be paid, his supplies must not be interrupted. He set his jaws and
fought on stubbornly, certain of his ultimate triumph if only he could
hold out.

A hundred miles to the westward was a melancholy example of
failure in railroad-building, in the form of two rows of rust upon a
weed-grown embankment. It was all that remained of another enterprise
which had succumbed to financial starvation, and the wasted millions
it represented was depressing to consider.

Thus far O'Neil's rivalry with the Trust had been friendly, if
spirited, but his action in coming to the assistance of Mrs. Gerard
and her daughter raised up a new and vigorous enemy whose methods were
not as scrupulous as those of the Heidlemanns.

Gordon was a strangely unbalanced man. He was magnetic, his
geniality was really heart-warming, yet he was perfectly cold-
blooded in his selfishness. He was cool and calculating, but
interference roused him to an almost insane pitch of passion. Fickle
in most things, he was uncompromising in his hatreds. O'Neil's
generosity in affording sanctuary to his defiant mistress struck him
as a personal affront, it fanned his dislike of his rival into a
consuming rage. It was with no thought of profit that he cast about
for a means of crippling O'Neil. He was quite capable of ruining
himself, not to speak of incidental harm to others, if only he could
gratify his spleen.

Denny, his trusted jackal, resisted stoutly any move against "The
Irish Prince," but his employer would not listen to him or consent to
any delay. Therefore, a certain plausible, shifty-eyed individual by
the name of Linn was despatched to Omar on the first steamer. Landing
at his destination, Mr. Linn quietly effaced himself, disappearing out
the right-of-way, where he began moving from camp to camp, ostensibly
in search of employment.

It was a few days later, perhaps a week after O'Neil's departure,
that Eliza Appleton entered the hospital and informed Dr. Gray:

"I've finished my first story for The Review."

The big physician had a rapid, forceful habit of speech. "Well, I
suppose you uncorked the vitriol bottle," he said, brusquely.

"No! Since you are now the fount of authority here, I thought I'd
tell you that I have reserved my treachery for another time. I
haven't learned enough yet to warrant real fireworks. As a matter of
fact, I've been very kind to Mr. O'Neil in my story."

"Let me thank you for him."

"Now don't be sarcastic! I could have said a lot of nasty things,
if he hadn't been so nice to me. I suppose it is the corrupting
influence of his kindness."

"He really will be grateful," the doctor assured her, seriously.
"Newspaper publicity of the wrong sort might hurt him a great deal
just now. In every big enterprise there comes a critical time, when
everything depends upon one man; strong as the structure seems, he's
really supporting it. You see, the whole thing rests ultimately on
credit and confidence. An ill- considered word, a little unfriendly
shove, and down comes the whole works. Then some financial power steps
in, reorganizes the wreckage, and gets the result of all the other
fellow's efforts, for nothing."

"Dan tells me the affairs of the S. R. N. are in just such a
tottering condition."

"Yes. We're up against it, for the time being. Our cards are on
the table, and you have it in your power to do us a lot of harm."

"Don't put it that way!" said Eliza, resentfully. "You and Mr.
O'Neil and even Dan make it hard for me to do my duty. I won't let
you rob me of my liberty. I'll get out and 'Siwash' it in a tent
first."

The physician laughed. "Don't mistake leaf-mold for muck, that's
all we ask. O'Neil is perfectly willing to let you investigate him."

"Exactly! And I could bite off his head for being so nice about
it. Not that I've discovered anything against him, for I haven't —I
think he's fine—but I object to the principle of the thing."

"He'll never peep, no matter what you do or say."

"It makes me furious to know how superior he is. I never detested
a man's virtues as I do his. Gordon is the sort I like, for he needs
exposing, and expects it. Wait until I get at him and the Trust."

"The Trust, too, eh?"

"Of course."

"Now what have the Heidlemanns done?"

"It's not what they have done; it's what they're going to do.
They're trying to grab Alaska."

Dr. Gray shook his head impatiently, but before he could make
answer Tom Slater entered and broke into the conversation by
announcing:

"I've spotted him, Doc. His name is Linn, and he's Gordon's hand.
He's at mile 24 and fifty men are quitting from that camp."

"That makes two hundred, so far," said the doctor.

"He's offering a raise of fifty cents a day and transportation to
Hope."

Miss Appleton smiled at him sweetly. "I had a dear friend once—
you remind me of him, he was such a splendid big man," she said.

Tom eyed her suspiciously.

"He chewed gum incessantly, too, and declared that it never hurt
anybody."

"It never did," asserted Slater.

"We pleaded, we argued, we did our best to save him, but—" She
shook her blond head sadly.

"What happened to him?"

"What always happens? He lingered along for a time, stubborn to
the last, then—" Turning abruptly to Dr. Gray, she asked, "Who is
this man Linn, and what is he doing?"

"He's an emissary of Curtis Gordon and he's hiring our men away
from us," snapped the physician.

"Why, Dan tells me Mr. O'Neil pays higher wages than anybody!"

"So he does, but Linn offers a raise. We didn't know what the
trouble was till over a hundred men had quit. The town is full of
them, now, and it's becoming a stampede."

"Can't you meet the raise?"

"That wouldn't do any good."

Tom agreed. "Gordon don't want these fellows. He's doing it to get
even with Murray for those wo—" He bit his words in two at a glance
from Gray. "What happened to the man that chewed gum?" he demanded
abruptly.

"Oh yes! Poor fellow! We warned him time and again, but he was a
sullen brute, he wouldn't heed advice. Why don't you bounce this man
Linn? Why don't you run him out of camp?"

"Fine counsel from a champion of equal rights!" smiled Gray. "You
forget we have laws and Gordon has a press bureau. It would
antagonize the men and cause a lot of trouble in the end. What O'Neil
could do personally, he can't do as the president of the S. R. N. It
would give us a black eye.

"We've go to do something dam' quick," said Slater, "or else the
work will be tied up. That would 'crab' Murray's deal. I've got a
pick-handle that's itching for Linn's head." The speaker coughed
hollowly and complained: "I've got a bad cold on my chest—feels like
pneumonia, to me. Wouldn't that just be my luck?"

"Do you have pains in your chest?" inquired the girl,
solicitously.

"Terrible! But I'm so full of pains that I get used to 'em".

"It isn't pneumonia."

Slater flared up at this, for he was jealous of his sufferings.

"It's gumbago!" Eliza declared.

Dr. Gray's troubled countenance relaxed into a grin as he said:

"I'll give you something to rub on those leather lungs—harness-
oil, perhaps."

"Is this labor trouble really serious?" asked the girl.

"Serious! It may knock us out completely. Go away now and let me
think. Pardon my rudeness, Miss Appleton, but—"

Slater paused at the door.

"Don't think too long, Doc," he admonished him, "for there's a
ship due in three days, and by that time there won't be a 'rough-
neck' left on the job. It'll take a month to get a new crew from the
States, and then it wouldn't be any good till it was broke in."

When he was alone the doctor sat down to weigh the news "Happy
Tom" had brought, but the more squarely he considered the matter the
more alarming it appeared. Thus far the S. R. N. had been remarkably
free from labor troubles. To permit them to creep in at this stage
would be extremely perilous: the briefest cessation of work might, and
probably would, have a serious bearing upon O'Neil's efforts to raise
money. Gray felt the responsibility of his position with extraordinary
force, for his chief's fortunes had never suffered in his hands and he
could not permit them to do so now. But how to meet this move of
Gordon's he did not know; he could think of no means of keeping these
men at Omar. As he had to Eliza, to meet the raise would be useless,
and a new scale of wages once adopted would be hard to reduce.
Successful or unsuccessful in its effect, it would run into many
thousands of dollars. The physician acknowledged himself dreadfully
perplexed; he racked his brain uselessly, yearning meanwhile for the
autocratic power to compel obedience among his men. He would have
forced them back to their jobs had there been a way, and the fact
that they were duped only added to his anger.

It occurred to him to quarantine the town, a thing he could easily
do as port physician in case of an epidemic, but Omar was unusually
healthy, and beyond a few surgical cases his hospital was empty.

His meditations were interrupted by Tom Slater, who returned to
say:

"Give me that dope, Doc; I'm coughing like a switch engine." Gray
rose and went to the shelves upon which his drugs were arranged,
while the fat man continued, "That Appleton girl has got me worried
with her foolishness. Maybe I AM sick; anyhow, I feel rotten. What I
need is a good rest and a nurse to wait on me."

The physician's eyes in running along the rows of bottles
encountered one labeled "Oleum Tiglii," and paused there. "You need a
rest, eh?" he inquired, mechanically.

"If I don't get one I'll wing my way to realms eternal. I ain't
been dried off for three months." Gray turned to regard his caller
with a speculative stare, his fingers toyed with the bottle. "If it
wasn't for this man Linn I'd lay off—I'd go to jail for him. But I
can't do anything, with one foot always in the grave."

The doctor's face lightened with determination.

"Tom, you've been sent from heaven!"

"D'you mean I've been sent for, from heaven?" The invalid's red
cheeks blanched, into his mournful eyes leaped a look of quick
concern. "Say! Am I as sick as all that?"

"This will make you feel better." Gray uncorked the bottle and
said, shortly, "Take off your shirt."

"What for?"

"I'm going to rub your chest and arms."

Slater obeyed, with some reluctance, pausing to inquire,
doubtfully:

"You ain't stripping me down so you can operate?"

"Nonsense!"

"I'm feeling pretty good again."

"It's well to take these things early. They all look alike at the
beginning."

"Not in the least, unless it frightens him to death. Tom's an
awful coward about sickness; that's why I need some one like you to
take care of him. He'll be at the hospital to-morrow at three. If
you'll arrange to be there we'll break the news to him gently. I
daren't tackle it alone."

Tom was a trifle embarrassed at finding Eliza in Dr. Gray's office
when he entered, on the next afternoon. The boss packer seemed
different than usual; he was much subdued. His cough had disappeared,
but in its place he suffered a nervous apprehension; his cheeks were
pale, the gloom in his eyes had changed to a lurking uneasiness.

"Just dropped in to say I'm all right again," he announced in an
offhand tone.

"That's good!" said Gray. "You don't look well, however."

"I'm feeling fine!" Mr. Slater hunched his shoulders as if the
contact of his shirt was irksome to the flesh.

"You'd better let me rub you. Why are you scratching yourself?"

"I ain't scratching."

"You were!" The doctor was sternly curious; he had assumed his
coldest and most professional air.

"Well, if I scratched, I probably itched. That's why people
scratch, ain't it?"

"Let me look you over." "I can't spare the time, Doc—"

"Wait!" Gray's tone halted the speaker as he turned to leave. "I'm
not going to let you out in this weather until I rub you."

This time there was no mistaking "Happy Tom's" pallor. "I tell you
I feel great," he declared in a shaking voice. "I—haven't felt so
good for years."

"Come, come! Step into the other room and take off your shirt."

"Not on your life."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want no more of your dam' liniment."

"Why?"

"Because I'm—because I don't."

"Then I suppose I'll have to throw and hog-tie you." The physician
rose and laid a heavy hand upon his patient's arm, at which Tom
exclaimed:

"Ouch! Leggo! Gimme the stuff and I'll rub myself."

"Tom!" The very gravity of the speaker's voice was portentous,
alarming. Mr. Slater hesitated, his gaze wavered, he scratched his
chest unconsciously.

Eliza shook her head pityingly; she uttered an inarticulate murmur
of concern.

"You couldn't get my shirt off with a steam-winch. I tell you I'm
feeling grand."

"Why WILL you chew the horrid stuff?" Miss Appleton inquired
sadly.

"I'm just a little broke out, that's all."

"Ah! You're broken out. I feared so," said the doctor.

The grave concern in those two faces was too much for Slater's
sensitive nature; his stubbornness gave way, his self-control
vanished, and he confessed wretchedly: '

"I spent an awful night, Doc. I'll bust into flame if this keeps
up. What is it, anyhow?"

Slater was in no condition for further resistance; a complete
collapse of body and mind had followed the intelligence of his
illness. He began to complain of many symptoms, none of which were in
any way connected with his fancied disease. He was racked with pains,
he suffered a terrible nausea, his head swam; he spoke bravely of his
destitute family and prepared to make his will. When he left the
hospital, an hour later, it was on a stretcher between four straining
bearers.

That evening a disturbing rumor crept through the town of Omar. It
penetrated the crowded saloons where the laborers who had quit work
were squandering their pay, and it caused a brief lull in the
ribaldry; but the mere fact that Tom Slater had come down with
smallpox and had been isolated upon a fishing-boat anchored in the
creek seemed, after all, of little consequence. Some of the idlers
strolled down the street to stare at the boat, and upon their return
verified the report. They also announced that they had seen the
yellow-haired newspaper woman aboard, all dressed in white. It was
considered high time by the majority to leave Omar, for an epidemic
was a thing to be avoided, and a wager was made that the whole force
would quit in a body as soon as the truth became known.

On the second day Dr. Gray undertook to allay the general
uneasiness, but, upon being pressed, reluctantly acknowledged that
his patient showed all the signs of the dread disease. This hastened
the general preparations for departure, and when the incoming steamer
hove in sight every laborer was at the dock with his kit-bag. It
excited some idle comment among them to note that Dr. Gray had gone
down the bay a short distance to meet the ship, and his efforts to
speak it were watched with interest and amusement. Obviously it would
have been much easier for him to wait until she landed, for she came
right on and drew in toward the wharf. It was not until her bow line
was made fast that the physician succeeded in hailing the captain.
Then the deserters were amazed to hear the following conversation:

"I can't let you land, Captain Johnny," came from Dr. Gray's
launch.

"And why can't you?" demanded Brennan from the bridge of his new
ship. "Have you some prejudice against the Irish?" The stern hawser
was already being run out, and the crowd was edging closer, waiting
for the gangplank.

"There is smallpox here, and as health officer I've quarantined
the port."

There came a burst of Elizabethan profanity from the little
skipper, but it was drowned by the shout from shore as the full
meaning of the situation finally came home. Then the waiting men made
a rush for the ship. She had not touched as yet, however, and the
distance between her and the pier was too great to leap. Above the
confusion came Brennan's voice, through a megaphone, commanding them
to stand back. Some one traitorously cast off the loop of the bow
line, the ship's propellers began to thrash, and the big steel hull
backed away inch by inch, foot by foot, until, amid curses and cries
of rage, she described a majestic circle and plowed off up the sound
toward Hope.

By a narrow margin the physician reached his hospital ahead of the
infuriated mob, and it was well that he did so, for they were in a
lynching mood. But, once within his own premises, he made a show of
determined resistance that daunted them, and they sullenly retired.
That night Omar rang with threats and deep- breathed curses, and Eliza
Appleton, in the garb of a nurse, tended her patient cheerfully.

To the delegation which waited upon him the next morning, Dr. Gray
explained the nature of his duties as health officer, informing them
coolly that no living soul could leave Omar without incurring legal
penalties. Since he could prevent any ships from landing, and inasmuch
as the United States marshal was present to enforce the quarantine, he
seemed to be master of the situation.

"How long will we be tied up?" demanded the spokesman of the
party.

"That is hard to say."

"Well, we're going to leave this camp!" the man declared, darkly.

"Indeed? Where are you going?"

"We're going to Hope. You might as well let us go. We won't stand
for this."

The physician eyed him coldly. "You won't? May I ask how you are
going to help yourselves?"

"We're going to leave on the next steamer."

"Oh, no you're not!" the marshal spoke up.

"See here, Doc! There's over two hundred of us and we can't stay
here; we'll go broke."

Gray shrugged his broad shoulders. "Sorry," he said, "but you see
I've no choice in the matter. I never saw a case of smallpox that
looked worse."

"It's a frame-up," growled the spokesman. "Tom hasn't got smallpox
any more than I have. You cooked it to keep us here." There was an
angry second to this, whereupon the doctor exclaimed:

"You think so, eh? Then just come with me."

"Where?"

"Out to the boat where he is. I'll show you."

"You won't show me no smallpox," asserted one of the committee.

"Then YOU come with me," the physician urged the leader.

"So you can bottle me up, too? No, thank you!"

"Get the town photographer with his flashlight. We'll help him
make a picture; then you can show it to the others. I promise not to
quarantine you."

After some hesitation the men agreed to this; the photographer was
summoned and joined the party on its way to the floating pest-house.

It was not a pleasant place in which they found Tom Slater, for
the cabin of the fishing-boat was neither light nor airy, but Eliza
had done much to make it agreeable. The sick man was propped up in his
bunk and playing solitaire, but he left off his occupation to groan as
the new-comers came alongside.

When the cause of the visit had been made known, however, he
rebelled.

"I won't pose for no camera fiend," he declared, loudly. "It ain't
decent and I'm too sick. D'you take me for a bearded lady or a living
skeleton?"

"These men think you're stalling," Dr. Gray told him.

"Who? Me?" Slater rolled an angry eye upon the delegation. "I
ain't sick, eh? I s'pose I'm doing this for fun? I wish you had it,
that's all."

The three members of the committee of investigation wisely halted
at the foot of the companionway stairs where the fresh air fanned
them; they were nervous and ill at ease.

As a matter of fact the patient betrayed no symptoms of a wasting
illness, for his cheeks were ruddy, he had eaten three hearty meals
each day, and the enforced rest had done him good, so the committee
saw nothing about him to satisfy their suspicions. But when Tom weakly
called upon them for assistance in rising they shrank back and one of
them exclaimed:

"I wouldn't touch you with a fish-pole."

Eliza came forward, however; she permitted her charge to lean upon
her while she adjusted the pillows at his back; but when Dr. Gray
ordered him to bare his breast and arms Slater refused positively. He
blushed, he stammered, he clutched his nightrobe with a horny hand
which would have required a cold chisel to loosen, and not until Eliza
had gone upon deck would he consent to expose his bulging chest.

But Miss Appleton had barely left the cabin when she was followed
by the most timid member of the delegation. He plunged up the stairs,
gasping:

"I've saw enough! He's got it, and got it bad."

A moment later came the dull sound of the exploding flashlight,
then a yell, and out of the smoke stumbled his two companions. The
spokesman, it appeared, had also seen enough—too much—for with
another yell he leaped the rail and made for shore. Fortunately the
tide was out and the water low; he left a trail across the mud flat
like that of a frightened hippopotamus.

When the two conspirators were finally alone upon the deck they
rocked in each other's arms, striving to stifle their laughter.
Meanwhile from the interior of the cabin came the feeble moans of the
invalid.

That evening hastily made photographs of the sick man were shown
upon the streets. Nor could the most skeptical deny that he presented
a revolting sight and one warranting Dr. Gray's precautions. In spite
of this evidence, however, threats against the physician continued to
be made freely; but when Eliza expressed fears for his safety he only
smiled grimly, and he stalked through the streets with such defiance
written on his heavy features that no man dared raise a hand against
him.

Day after day the quarantine continued, and at length some of the
men went back to work. As others exhausted their wages they followed.
In a fortnight Omar was once more free of its floating population and
work at the front was going forward as usual. Meanwhile the patient
recovered in marvelous fashion and was loud in his thanks to the
physician who had brought him through so speedily. Yet Gray stubbornly
refused to raise the embargo.

Finally the cause of the whole trouble appeared at the hospital
and begged to be released.

"You put it over me," said Mr. Linn. "I've had enough and I want
to get out."

"I know it wasn't smallpox at all, but it worked just the same,
I'll leave your men alone if you'll let me go out on the next Seattle
steamer."

"But—I thought you came from Hope?" Gray said, blandly.

Mr. Linn shifted his eyes and laughed uneasily. "I did, and I'm
going to keep coming from Hope. You don't think I'd dare to go back
after this, do you?"

"Why not?"

"Gordon would kill me."

"So! Mr. Gordon sent you?"

"You know he did. But—I've got to get out now. I'm broke."

"I didn't think it of Gordon!" The doctor shook his head sadly.
"How underhanded of him!"

Linn exploded desperately: "Don't let's four-flush. You were too
slick for him, and you sewed me up. I've spent the money he gave me
and now I'm flat."

"You look strong. We need men."

Gordon's emissary turned pale. "Say! You wouldn't set me to work?
Why, those men would string me up."

"I think not. I've spoken to the shift boss at mile 30, and he'll
take care you're not hurt so long as you work hard and keep your
mouth shut."

An hour later Mr. Linn, cursing deeply, shouldered his pack and
tramped out the grade, nor could he obtain food or shelter until he
had covered those thirty weary miles. Once at his destination, he was
only too glad to draw a numbered tag and fall to work with pick and
shovel, but at his leisure he estimated that it would take him until
late the following month to earn his fare to the States.

Dan whistled softly. "I didn't suppose they'd try anything like
that, but—they did a good job while they were at it. Why, you'd
think O'Neil was a grafter and the S. R. N. nothing but a land-
grabbing deal."

"How DARED they?" the girl cried. "The actual changes aren't so
many—just enough to alter the effect of the story—but that's what
makes it so devilish. For instance, I described the obstacles and the
handicaps Mr. O'Neil has had to overcome in order to show the
magnitude of his enterprise, but Drake has altered it so that the
physical conditions here seem to be insuperable and he makes me say
that the road is doomed to failure. That's the way he changed it all
through."

"It may topple the chief's plans over; they're very insecure. It
plays right into the hands of his enemies, too, and of course
Gordon's press bureau will make the most of it."

"Heavens! I want sympathy, not abuse!" wailed his sister. "It's
all due to the policy of The Review. Drake thinks everybody up here
is a thief. I dare say they are, but—How can I face Mr. O'Neil?"

Dan shook the paper in his fist. "Are you going to stand for
this?" he demanded.

"Hardly! I cabled the office this morning, and here's Drake's
answer." She read:

"Both. Mr. O'Neil for putting me in the position of a traitor, and
Drake for presuming to rewrite my stuff. I'm going to resign, and I'm
going to leave Omar before Murray O'Neil comes back."

"Don't be a quitter, Sis. If you throw up the job the paper will
send somebody who will lie about us to suit the policy of the office.
Show 'em where they're wrong; show 'em what this country needs. You
have your magazine stories to write."

Eliza shook her head. "Bother the magazines and the whole
business! I'm thinking about Mr. O'Neil. I—I could cry. I suppose
I'll have to stay and explain to him, but—then I'll go home."

"No! You'll stay right here and go through with this thing. I need
you."

"You? What for?"

"You can perform a great and a signal service for your loving
brother. He's in terrible trouble!"

"It was a fatal mistake for her to come to Omar, and to this very
house, of all places, where I could see her every day. I might have
recovered from the first jolt if I'd never seen her again, but—" He
waved his hands hopelessly. "I'm beginning to hate O'Neil."

"You miserable traitor!" gasped Eliza.

"Yep! That's me! I'm dead to loyalty, lost to the claims of
friendship. I've fought myself until I'm black in the face, but—
it's no use. I must have Natalie!"

"She's crazy about O'Neil."

"Seems to be, for a fact, but that doesn't alter my fix. I can't
live this way. You must help me or I'll lose my reason."

"Nonsense! You haven't any or you wouldn't talk like this. What
can I do?"

"It's simple! Be nice to Murray and—and win him away from her."

Eliza stared at him as though she really believed him daft. Then
she said, mockingly:

"Is that all? Just make him love me?"

Dan nodded. "That would be fine, if you could manage it."

"Why—you—you—I—" She gasped uncertainly for terms in which to
voice her indignant surprise. "Idiot!" she finally exclaimed.

"Thanks for such glowing praise," Dan said, forlornly. "I feel a
lot worse than an idiot. An idiot is not necessarily evil; at heart
he may be likable, and pathetic, and merely unfortunate—"

"You simply can't be in earnest!"

"I am, though!" He turned upon her eyes which had grown suddenly
old and weary with longing.

"You poor, foolish boy! In the first place, Mr. O'Neil will hate
me for this story. In the second place, no man would look at me. I'm
ugly—"

"I think you're beautiful."

"With my snub nose, and big mouth, and—"

"You can make him laugh, and when a woman can make a fellow laugh
the rest is easy."

"In the third place I'm mannish and—vulgar, and besides—I don't
care for him."

"Of course you don't, or I wouldn't ask it. You see, we're taking
no risks! You can at least take up his attention and—and when you
see him making for Natalie you can put out your foot and trip him up."

"It wouldn't be honorable, Danny."

"Possibly! But that doesn't make any difference with me. You may
as well realize that I've got beyond the point where nice
considerations of that sort weigh with me. If you'd ever been in love
you'd understand that such things don't count at all. It's your chance
to save the reason and happiness of an otherwise perfectly good
brother."

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for your happiness—nothing. But
—Oh, it's preposterous!"

Dan relapsed into gloomy silence, and they had a very
uncomfortable meal. Unable to bear his continued lack of spirits,
Eliza again referred to the subject, and tried until late in the
evening to argue him out of his mood. But the longer they talked the
more plainly she saw that his feeling for Natalie was not fanciful,
but sincere and deep. She continued to scout his suggestion that she
could help him by captivating O'Neil, and stoutly maintained that she
had no attraction for men; nevertheless, when she went to her room she
examined herself critically in her mirror. This done, she gave herself
over to her favorite relaxation.

First she exchanged her walking-skirt, her prim shirtwaist and
jacket, for a rose-pink wrapper which she furtively brought out of a
closet. It was a very elaborate wrapper, all fluffy lace and ruffles
and bows, and it had cost Eliza a sum which she strove desperately to
forget. She donned silk stockings and a pair of tiny bedroom slippers;
then seating herself once more at her dresser, she let down her hair.
She invariably wore it tightly drawn back—so tightly, in fact, that
Dan had more than once complained that it pulled her eyebrows out of
place. On this occasion, however, she crimped it, she curled it, she
brought it forward about her face in soft riotous puffs and strands,
patting it into becoming shape with dexterous fingers until it formed
a golden frame for her piquant features.

Now this was no unusual performance for her. In the midnight
solitude of her chamber she regularly gave rein to the feminine side
of her nature. By day she was the severe, matter-of-fact, businesslike
Eliza Appleton, deaf to romance, lost to illusion, and unresponsive to
masculine attention; but deep in her heart were all the instincts and
longings of femininity, and at such times as this they came uppermost.
Her bedroom had none of the Puritanical primness which marked her
habit of dress; it was in no way suggestive of the masculine character
which she so proudly paraded upon the street. On the contrary, it was
a bower of daintiness, and was crowded with all the senseless
fripperies of a school-girl. Carefully hidden away beneath her
starched shirtwaists was much lingerie—bewildering creations to match
the pink wrapper—and this she petted and talked to adoringly when no
one could hear.

Eliza read much when she was unobserved—romances and improbable
tales of fine ladies and gallant squires. There were times, too, when
she wrote, chewing her pencil in the perplexities of vividly colored
love scenes; but she always destroyed these manuscripts before the
curious sun could spy upon her labors. In such ecstatic flights of
fancy the beautiful heroine was a languorous brunette with hair of
raven hue and soulful eyes in which slumbered the mystery of a tropic
night. She had a Grecian nose, moreover, and her name was Violet.

From all this it may be gathered that Eliza Appleton was by no
means the extraordinary person she seemed. Beneath her false exterior
she was shamelessly normal.

In the days before O'Neil's return she suffered constant
misgivings and qualms of conscience, but the sight of her brother
reveling, expanding, fairly bursting into bloom beneath the influence
of Natalie Gerard led her to think that perhaps she did have a duty to
perform. Dan's cause was hers, and while she had only the faintest
hope of aiding it, she was ready to battle for his happiness with
every weapon at her command. The part she would have to play was not
exactly nice, she reflected, but—the ties of sisterhood were strong
and she would have made any sacrifice for Dan. She knew that Natalie
was fond of him in a casual, friendly way, and although it was evident
that the girl accorded him none of that hero-worship with which she
favored his chief, Eliza began to think there still might be some hope
for him. Since we are all prone to argue our consciences into
agreement with our desires, she finally brought herself to the belief
that O'Neil was not the man for Natalie. He was too old, too confirmed
in his ways, and too self-centered to make a good husband for a girl
of her age and disposition. Once her illusions had been rubbed away
through daily contact with him, she would undoubtedly awaken to his
human faults, and unhappiness would result for both. What Natalie
needed for her lasting contentment was a boy her own age whose life
would color to match hers. So argued Eliza with that supreme
satisfaction which we feel in arranging the affairs of others to suit
ourselves.

She was greatly embarrassed, nevertheless, when she next met
O'Neil and tried to explain that story in The Review. He listened
courteously and smiled his gentle smile.

"My dear," said he, finally, "I knew there had been some mistake,
so let's forget that it ever happened. Now tell me about the smallpox
epidemic. When I heard what Linn was doing with our men I was badly
worried, for I couldn't see how to checkmate him, but it seems you and
Doc were equal to the occasion. He cabled me a perfectly proper
announcement of Tom's quarantine, and I believed we had been favored
by a miracle."

"It wasn't a miracle at all," Eliza said in a matter-of-fact tone;
"it was croton oil. Nobody has dared tell him the truth. He still
believes he could smell the tuberoses."

O'Neil seemed to derive great amusement from her account of what
followed. He had already heard Dr. Gray's version of the affair, but
Eliza had a refreshing way of saying things.

"I brought you a little present," he said when she had finished.

She took the package he handed her, exclaiming with a slight flush
of embarrassment, "A s'prise! Nobody but Dan ever gave me a present."
Then her eyes darkened with suspicion. "Did you bring me this because
of what I did?"

"Now don't be silly! I knew nothing about your part in the comedy
until Doc told me. You are a most difficult person."

Slowly she unwrapped the parcel, and then with a gasp lifted a
splendidly embroidered kimono from its box.

"Oh-h!" Her eyes were round and astonished. "Oh-h! It's for ME!"

It was a regal garment of heavy silk, superbly ornamented with
golden dragons, each so cunningly worked that it seemed upon the
point of taking wing. "Why, their eyes glitter! And—they'd breathe
fire if I jabbed them. Oh-h!" She stared at the gift in helpless
amazement. "Is it mine, HONESTLY?"

He nodded. "Won't you put it on?"

"Over these things? Never!" Again Miss Appleton blushed, for she
recalled that she had prepared for his coming with extraordinary
care. Her boots were even stouter than usual, her skirt more plain,
her waist more stiff, and her hair more tightly smoothed back. "It
would take a fluffy person to wear this. I'll always keep it, of
course, and—I'll worship it, but I'm not designed for pretty clothes.
I'll let Natalie wear—"

"Natalie has one of her own, done in butterflies, and I brought
one to her mother also."

"And you bought this for me after you had seen that fiendish story
over my signature?"

"Certainly!" He quickly forestalled her attempted thanks by
changing the subject. "Now then, Dan tells me you are anxious to
begin your magazine-work, so I'm going to arrange for you to see the
glaciers and the coal-fields. It will be a hard trip, for the track
isn't through yet, but—"

"Oh, I'll take care of myself; I won't get in anybody's way," she
said, eagerly.

"I intend to see that you don't, by going with you; so make your
preparations and we'll leave as soon as I can get away."

When he had gone the girl said, aloud:

"Eliza Voilet, this is your chance. It's underhanded and mean,
but—you're a mean person, and the finger of Providence is directing
you." She snatched up the silken kimono and ran into her room, locking
the door behind her. Hurriedly she put it on, then posed before the
mirror. Next down came her hair amid a shower of pins. She arranged it
loosely about her face, and, ripping an artificial flower from her
"party" hat, placed it over her ear, then swayed grandly to and fro
while the golden dragons writhed and curved as if in joyous
admiration. A dozen times she slipped out of the garment and,
gathering it to her face, kissed it; a dozen times she donned it,
strutting about her little room like a peacock. Her tip-tilted nose
was red and her eyes were wet when at last she laid it out upon her
bed and knelt with her cheek against it.

"Gee! If only I were pretty!" she sighed, "I almost believe he—
likes me."

Tom Slater laboriously propelled himself up the hill to the
bungalow that evening, and seated himself on the topmost step near
where Eliza was rocking. She had come to occupy a considerable place
in his thoughts of late, for she was quite beyond his understanding.
She affected him as a mental gad-fly, stinging his mind into an
activity quite unusual. At times he considered her a nice girl, though
undoubtedly insane; then there were other moments when she excited his
deepest animosity. Again, on rare occasions she completely upset all
his preconceived notions by being so friendly and so sympathetic that
she made him homesick for his own daughter. In his idle hours,
therefore he spent much time at the Appleton cottage.

"Where have you been lately, Uncle Tom?" she began.

Slater winced at the appellation, but ignored it.

"I've been out on the delta hustling supplies ahead. Heard the
news?"

"No."

"Curtis Gordon has bought the McDermott outfit in Kyak."

"That tells me nothing. Who is McDermott?"

"He's a shoe-stringer. He had a wildcat plan to build a railroad
from Kyak to the coal-fields, but he never got farther than a row of
alder stakes and a book of press clippings."

"Does that mean that Gordon abandons his Hope route?"

"Yep! He's swung in behind us and the Heidlemanns. Now it's a
three-sided race, with us in the lead. Mellen just brought in the
news half an hour ago; he was on his way down from the glaciers when
he ran into a field party of Gordon's surveyors. Looks like trouble
ahead if they try to crowd through the canon alongside of us."

"He must believe Kyak Bay will make a safe harbor."

"Don't say it! If he's right, we're fried to a nice brown finish
on both sides and it's time to take us off the stove. I'm praying for
a storm."

"'The prayers of the wicked are an abomination unto the Lord,'"
quoted Eliza.

"Sure! But I keep right on praying just the same. It's a habit
now. The news has set the chief to jumping sideways."

"Which, translated, I suppose means that he is disturbed."

"Or words to that effect! Too bad they changed that newspaper
story of yours."

"Yes."

"It put a crimp in him."

"How—do you mean?"

"He had some California capitalists tuned up to put in three
million dollars, but when they read that our plan was impracticable
their fountain-pens refused to work."

"Oh!" Eliza gasped, faintly.

Slater regarded her curiously, then shook his head. "Funny how a
kid like you can scare a bunch of hard-headed bankers, ain't it?" he
said. "Doc Gray explained that it wasn't your fault, but—it doesn't
take much racket to frighten the big fish."

"What will Mr. O'Neil do?"

"Oh, he'll fight it out, I s'pose. The first thing is to block
Gordon. Say, I brought you a present."

"It ain't much, but it was the best in the crate and I shined it
up on my towel." Mr. Slater handed Eliza a fine red apple of
prodigious size, at sight of which the girl turned pale.

"I—don't like apples," she cried, faintly.

"Never mind; they're good for your complexion."

"I'd die before I'd eat one."

"Then I'll eat it for you; my complexion ain't what it was before
I had the smallpox." When he had carried out this intention and
subjected his teeth to a process of vacuum-cleaning, he asked: "Say,
what happened to your friend who chewed gum?"

"Well, he was hardly a friend," Miss Appleton said, "If he had
been a real friend he would have listened to my warning."

Eliza's tone was one of shocked amazement. "Not REALLY? Oh, well,
some people would thrive on it, I dare say, but he had indigestion."

"Me too! That's why I chew it."

The girl eyed him during an uncomfortable pause. Finally she
inquired:

"Do you ever feel a queer, gnawing feeling, like hunger, if you go
without your breakfast?"

"Unh-hunh! Don't you?"

"I wouldn't alarm you for the world, Uncle Tom—"

"I ain't your uncle!"

"You might chew the stuff for years and not feel any bad effects,
but if you wake up some morning feeling tired and listless—"

"I've done that, too." Slater's gloomy eyes were fixed upon her
with a look of vague apprehension. "Is it a symptom?"

"Certainly! Pepsin-poisoning, it's called. This fellow I told you
about was a charming man, and since we had all tried so hard to save
him, we felt terribly at the end."

"Then he died?"

"Um-m! Yes and no. Remind me to tell you the story sometime—Here
comes Dan, in a great hurry."

Young Appleton came panting up the hill.

"Good-by, Sis," he said. "I'm off for the front in ten minutes."

"Anybody hurt?" Slater asked quickly.

"Not yet, but somebody's liable to be. Gordon is trying to steal
the canon, and Murray has ordered me out with a car of dynamite to
hold it."

"Dynamite! Why, Dan!" his sister exclaimed in consternation.

"We have poling-boats at the lower crossing and we'll be at the
canon in two days. I'm going to load the hillside with shots, and if
they try to come through I'll set 'em off. They'll never dare tackle
it." Dan's eyes were dancing; his face was alive with excitement.

"But suppose they should?" Eliza insisted, quietly.

"Then send Doc Gray with some stretchers. I owe one to Gordon, and
this is my chance." Drawing her aside, he said in an undertone.
"You've got to hold my ground with Natalie while I'm gone. Don't let
her see too much of Murray."

"I'll do the best I can," she answered him, "but if he seems to be
in earnest I'll renig, no matter what happens to you, Danny."

The so-called canon of the Salmon River lies just above the twin
glaciers. Scenically, these are by far the more impressive, and they
present a more complex engineering problem; yet the canon itself was
the real strategic point in the struggle between the
railroad-builders. The floor of the valley immediately above Garfield
glacier, though several miles wide, was partly filled with detritus
which had been carried down from the mother range on the east, and
this mass of debris had forced the stream far over against the
westward rim, where it came roaring past the foot wall in a splendid
cataract some three miles long. To the left of the river, looking
up-stream at this point, the mountains slanted skyward like a roof,
until lost in the hurrying scud four thousand feet above. To the
right, however, was the old moraine, just mentioned, consisting of a
desolate jumble of rock and gravel and silt overlaying the ice foot.
On account of its broken character and the unstable nature of its
foundation this bank was practically useless for road-building, and
the only feasible route for steel rails was along the steep west wall.

O'Neil on his first reconnaissance had perceived that while there
was room for more than one bridge across the Salmon between the upper
and the lower ice masses, there was not room for more than one track
alongside the rapids, some miles above that point. He knew, moreover,
that once he had established his title to a right-of-way along the
west rim of the cataract, it would be difficult for a rival to oust
him, or to parallel his line without first crossing back to the east
bank—an undertaking at once hazardous and costly. He had accordingly
given Dan Appleton explicit instructions to be very careful in filing
his survey, that no opportunity might be left open for a later
arrival. The engineer had done his work well, and O'Neil rested secure
in the belief that he held possession of the best and least expensive
route through to the open valleys above. He had had no cause to fear
a clash with the Heidlemann forces, for they had shown a strict regard
for his rights and seemed content to devote themselves to developing
their terminus before trying to negotiate the canon. They were wise in
taking this course, for their success would mean that O'Neil's project
would fall of its own weight. Kyak was nearer Seattle, by many miles,
than Omar; it was closer to the coal and copper fields, and the proven
permanence of their breakwater would render useless further attempts
to finance the S. R. N.

But in the entrance of Curtis Gordon into the field O'Neil
recognized danger. Gordon was swayed by no such business scruples as
the Heidlemanns; he was evidently making a desperate effort to secure
a footing at any cost. In purchasing the McDermott holdings he had
executed a coup of considerable importance, for he had placed himself
on equal footing with the Trust and in position to profit by its
efforts at harbor-building without expense to himself. If, therefore,
he succeeded in wresting from O'Neil the key to that upper passageway,
he would be able to block his personal enemy and to command the
consideration of his more powerful rival.

No one, not even the Trust, had taken the McDermott enterprise
seriously, but with Curtis Gordon in control the "wildcat" suddenly
became a tiger.

In view of all this, it was with no easy mind that O'Neil
despatched Appleton to the front, and it was with no small
responsibility upon his shoulders that the young engineer set out in
charge of those wooden boxes of dynamite. Murray had told him frankly
what hung upon his success, and Dan had vowed to hold the survey at
any cost.

Steam was up and the locomotive was puffing restlessly when he
returned from his farewell to Eliza. A moment later and the single
flat car carrying his party and its dangerous freight was being
whirled along the shores of Omar Lake. On it rushed, shrieking through
the night, out from the gloomy hills and upon the tangent that led
across the delta. Ten minutes after it had rolled forth upon the
trestle at the "lower crossing" the giant powder had been transferred
to poling-boats and the long pull against the current had begun.

O'Neil had picked a crew for Dan, men upon whom he could depend.
They were on double pay, and as they had worked upon the North Pass
Yukon, Appleton had no doubt of their loyalty.

The events of that trip were etched upon the engineer's mind with
extraordinary vividness, for they surpassed in peril and excitement
all his previous experiences. The journey resembled nothing but the
mad scramble of a gold stampede. The stubborn boats with their cargoes
which had to be so gently handled, the ever-increasing fury of the
river, the growing menace of those ghastly, racing icebergs, the
taut-hauled towing-lines, and the straining, sweating men in the
loops, all made a picture hard to forget. Then, too, the uncertainty
of the enterprise, the crying need of haste, the knowledge of those
other men converging upon the same goal, lent a gnawing suspense to
every hour. It was infinitely more terrible than that first expedition
when he and Tom Slater and O'Neil had braved the unknown. It was
vastly more trying than any of the trips which had followed, even with
the winter hurricane streaming out of the north as from the mouth of
a giant funnel.

Dan had faced death in various forms upon this delta during the
past year and a half. He had seen his flesh harden to marble
whiteness under the raging north wind; his eyes and lungs had been
drifted full of sand in summer storms which rivaled those of the
Sahara. With transit on his back he had come face to face with the
huge brown grizzly. He had slept in mud, he had made his bed on moss
which ran water like a sponge; he had taken danger and hardship as
they came—yet never had he punished himself as on this dash.

Through his confusion of impressions, his intense preoccupation
with present dangers and future contingencies, the thought of Natalie
floated now and then vaguely but comfortingly. He had seen her for a
moment, before leaving—barely long enough to explain the nature of
his mission—but her quick concern, her unvoiced anxiety, had been
very pleasant, and he could not believe that it was altogether due to
her interest in the fortunes of O'Neil.

Dan knew that Mellen's crew was camped at the upper crossing,
busied in drilling for the abutments and foundations of the bridge;
but he reasoned that they would scarcely suspect the object of
Gordon's party and that, in any case, they were not organized or
equipped to resist it. Moreover, the strategic point was four miles
above the bridge site, and the surveying corps would hardly
precipitate a clash, particularly since there was ample room for them
to select a crossing-place alongside.

It was after midnight of the second day when he and his weary
boatmen stumbled into sight of the camp. Appleton halted his command
and stole forward, approaching the place through the tangled alders
which flanked it. He had anticipated that the rival party would be up
to this point by now, if not even farther advanced, and he was both
angered and relieved to sight the tops of other tents pitched a few
hundred yards beyond Mellen's outfit. So they were here! He had
arrived in time, after all! A feeling of exultation conquered the
deathly fatigue that slowed his limbs. Although he still had to pass
the invader's camp and establish himself at the canon, the certainty
that he had made good thus far was ample reward for his effort.

A dog broke into furious barking as he emerged from cover, and he
had a moment's anxiety lest it serve as warning to the enemy; but a
few quick strides brought him to the tent of Mellen's foreman. Going
in, he roused the man, who was sleeping soundly.

"Hello!" cried the foreman, jumping up and rubbing his eyes, "I
thought Curtis Gordon had taken possession."

"Hush! Don't wake them up," Dan cautioned.

"Oh, there's no danger of disturbing them with this infernal
cannonading going on all the time." The night resounded to a rumbling
crash as some huge mass of ice split off, perhaps two miles away.

"When did they arrive?"

"Night before last. They've located right alongside of us. Gee! we
were surprised when they showed up. They expect to break camp in the
morning." He yawned widely.

"Hm-m! They're making tracks, aren't they? Were they friendly?"

"Oh, sure! So were we. There was nothing else to do, was there? We
had no orders."

"I have two dozen men and four boatloads of dynamite with me. I'm
going to hold that mountainside."

"Then you're going to fight!" All vestige of drowsiness had fled
from the man's face.

"Not if we can help it. Who is in charge of this crew?"

"Gordon himself."

"Gordon!"

"Yes! And he's got a tough gang with him."

"Armed?"

"Sure! This is a bear country, you know."

"Listen! I want you to tell him, as innocently as you can, that
we're on the job ahead of him. Tell him we've been there for a week
and have loaded that first rock shoulder and expect to shoot it off as
soon as possible. You can tell him, too, that I'm up there and he'd
better see me before trying to pass through."

"I've got you! But that won't stop him."

"Perhaps! Now have you any grub in camp?"

"No."

"We threw ours overboard, to make time. Send up anything you can
spare; we're played out."

"It'll be nothing but beans, and they're moldy."

"We can fight on beans, and we'll eat the paper off those giant
cartridges if we have to. Don't fail to warn Gordon that the hillside
is mined, and warn him loud enough for his swampers to hear."

Appleton hastened back to his boats, where he found his men
sprawled among the boulders sleeping the sleep of complete
exhaustion. They were drenched, half numbed by the chill air of the
glacier, and it was well that he roused them.

"Gordon's men are camped just above," he told them. "But we must
get through without waking them. No talking, now, until we're safe."

Silently the crew resumed their tow-lines, fitting them to their
aching shoulders; gingerly the boats were edged out into the current.

It was fortunate that the place was noisy, and that the voice of
the river and the periodic bombardment from the glaciers drowned the
rattle of loose stones dislodged by their footsteps. But it was a
trying half-hour that followed. Dan did not breathe easily until his
party had crossed the bar and were safely out upon the placid waters
of the lake, with the last stage of the journey ahead of them.

About mid-forenoon of the following day Curtis Gordon halted his
party at the lower end of the rapids and went on alone. To his right
lay the cataract and along the steep slope against which it chafed
wound a faint footpath scarcely wide enough in places for a man to
pass. This trail dipped in and out, wound back and forth around
frowning promontories. It dodged through alder thickets or spanned
slides of loose rock, until, three miles above, it emerged into the
more open country back of the parent range. It had been worn by the
feet of wild animals and it followed closely the right-of-way of the
S. R. N. To the left the hills rose swiftly in great leaps to the sky;
to the right, so close that a false step meant disaster, roared the
cataract, muddy and foam- flecked.

As Gordon neared the first bluff he heard, above the clamor of the
flood, a faint metallic "tap-tap-tap," as of hammer and drill, and,
drawing closer, he saw Dan Appleton perched upon a rock which
commanded a view in both directions. Just around the shoulder, in a
tiny gulch, or gutter from the slopes above, were pitched several
tents, from one of which curled the smoke of a cook-stove. Close at
hand were moored four battered poling- boats.

Still heedless of the warning, Gordon held stubbornly to his
stride. He noted the heads of several men projecting from behind
boulders, and his anger rose. How dared this whipper-snapper shout at
him! He felt inclined to toss the insolent young scoundrel into the
rapids. Then suddenly his resentment gave place to a totally different
emotion. The slanting bank midway between him and Appleton lifted
itself bodily in a chocolate- colored upheaval, and the roar of a
dynamite blast rolled out across the river. It was but a feeble echo
of the majestic reverberations from the glacier across the lake, but
it was impressive enough to send Curtis Gordon scurrying to a place of
safety. He wheeled in his tracks, doubling himself over, and his long
legs began to thresh wildly. Reaching the shelter of a rock crevice,
he hurled himself into it, while over his place of refuge descended a
shower of dirt and rocks and debris. When the rain of missiles had
subsided he stepped forth, his face white with fury, his big hands
twitching. His voice was hoarse as he shouted his protest.

Appleton scrambled carefully down from his perch in the warm
sunshine and approached with insolent leisure.

"Say! Do you want to get your fool self killed?" he cried; then in
an altered tone: "Oh! Is it you, Gordon?"

"You knew very well it was I." Gordon swallowed hard and partially
controlled his wrath. "What do you mean by such carelessness?" he
demanded. "You ought to be hung for a thing like that." He brushed the
dirt from his expensive hunting-suit.

"I yelled my head off! You must be deaf."

"You saw me coming! Don't say you didn't. Fortunately I wasn't
hurt." In a tone of command he added, "You'll have to stop blasting
until I go through with my party."

"Sorry! Every day counts with us." Appleton grinned. "You know how
it is—short season, and ail that."

"Come, come! Don't be an idiot. I have no time to waste,"

"Then you'll have to go around," said Dan. "This isn't a public
road, you know."

Gordon had come to argue, to pacify, to gain his ends by lying, if
necessary, but this impudent jackanapes infuriated him. His plans had
gone smoothly so far, and the unexpected threat of resistance
momentarily provoked him beyond restraint.

"You scoundrel," he cried. "You'd have blown me into the river if
you could. But I'll go through this canon—"

"Go as far and as fast as you like," Dan interrupted with equal
heat, "only take your own chances, and have a net spread at the lower
end of the rapids to catch the remains."

They eyed each other angrily; then Gordon said, more quietly:

"This is ridiculous. You can't stop me."

"Maybe I can't and maybe I can, I'm under orders to rush this work
and I don't intend to knock off to please you. I've planted shots at
various places along our right-of-way and I'll set 'em off when it
suits me. If you're so anxious to go up-river, why don't you cross
over to the moraine? There's a much better trail on that side. You'll
find better walking a few miles farther up, and you'll run no danger
of being hurt."

"I intend to run a survey along this hillside."

"There isn't room; we beat you to it."

"The law provides—"

"Law? Jove! I'd forgotten there is such a thing. Why don't you go
to law and settle the question that way? We'll have our track laid by
the time you get action, and I'm sure Mr. O'Neil wouldn't place any
obstacles in the way of your free passage back and forth. He's awfully
obliging about such things."

Gordon ground his fine, white, even teeth. "Don't you understand
that I'm entitled to a right-of-way through here under the law of
common user?" he asked, with what patience he could command.

"If you're trying to get a legal opinion on the matter why don't
you see a lawyer? I'm not a lawyer, neither am I a public speaker nor
a piano-tuner, nor anything like that—I'm an engineer."

"Don't get funny. I can't send my men in here if you continue
blasting."

"So it seems to me, but you appear to be hell bent on trying it."

Dan was enjoying himself and he deliberately added to the other's
anger by inquiring, as if in the blinding light of a new idea:

"Why don't you bridge over and go up the other side?" He pointed
to the forbidding, broken country which faced them across the rapids.

Gordon snorted. "How long do you intend to maintain this
preposterous attitude?" he asked.

"As long as the powder lasts—and there's a good deal of it."

The promoter chewed his lip for a moment in perplexity, then said
with a geniality he was far from feeling:

"Appleton, you're all right! I admire your loyalty, even though it
happens to be for a mistaken cause. I always liked you. I admire
loyalty—It's something I need in my business. What I need I pay for,
and I pay well."

"So your man Linn told us."

"I never really discharged you. In fact, I intended to re-employ
you, for I need you badly. You can name your own salary and go to
work any time."

"In other words, you mean you'll pay me well to let you through."

"Fix your own price and I'll double it."

"Will you come with me up this trail a little way?" Dan inquired.

"Certainly."

"There's a spot where I'd like to have you stand. I'll save you
the trouble of walking back to your men—you'll beat the echo."

There was a pause while Gordon digested this. "Better think it
over," he said at length. "I'll never let O'Neil build his road, not
if it breaks me, and you're merely laying yourself open to arrest by
threatening me."

With a curse the promoter wheeled and walked swiftly down the
trail by which he had come.

"Get ready to shoot," Dan ordered when he had returned to his
vantage-point. A few moments later he saw the invading party
approach, but he withheld his warning shout until it was close at
hand. Evidently Gordon did not believe he would have the reckless
courage to carry out his threat, and had determined to put him to the
test.

The engineer gauged his distance nicely, and when the new-comers
had fairly passed within the danger zone he gave the signal to fire.

A blast heavier than the one which had discouraged Gordon's
advance followed his command, and down upon the new-comers rained a
deluge which sent them scurrying to cover. Fortunately no one was
injured.

An hour later the invaders had pitched camp a mile below, and
after placing a trusted man on guard Appleton sent his weary men to
bed.

It was Curtis Gordon himself who brought O'Neil the first tidings
of this encounter, for, seeing the uselessness of an immediate
attempt to overcome Dan's party by force, he determined to make
formal protest. He secured a boat, and a few hours later the swift
current swept him down to the lower crossing, where McKay put a
locomotive at his disposal for the trip to Omar. By the time he
arrived there he was quite himself again, suave, self- possessed, and
magnificently outraged at the treatment he had received. O'Neil met
him with courtesy.

"Your man Appleton has lost his head," Gordon began. "I've come to
ask you to call him off."

"He is following instructions to the letter."

"Do you mean that you refuse to allow me to run my right-of-way
along that hillside? Impossible!" His voice betokened shocked
surprise.

"Then there is but one way to construe your refusal—it means that
you declare war."

"You saved me that necessity when you sent Linn to hire my men
away."

Gordon ignored this reference. "You must realize, O'Neil," said
he, "that I am merely asking what is mine. I have the right to use
that canonside—the right to use your track at that point, in fact, if
it proves impracticable to parallel it—under the law of common user.
You are an experienced contractor; you must be familiar with that
law."

"Yes. I looked it up before beginning operations, and I found it
has never been applied to Alaska."

Gordon started. "That's a ridiculous statement."

"Perhaps, but it's true. Alaska is not a territory, it's a
district, and it has its own code. Until the law of common user has
been applied here you'll have to use the other side of the river."

"That would force me to bridge twice in passing the upper glacier.
We shall see what the courts have to say." "Thanks! I shall be
grateful for the delay."

Gordon rose with a bow. The interview had been short and to the
point. O'Neil put an engine at his service for the return trip, and
after a stiff adieu the visitor departed, inwardly raging.

It was his first visit to Omar, and now that he was here he
determined to see it all. But first another matter demanded his
attention—a matter much in his mind of late, concerning which he had
reached a more or less satisfactory decision during his journey.

He went directly to the new hotel and inquired for Gloria Gerard.

Beneath the widow's coldness when she came to meet him he detected
an uncertainty, a frightened indecision which assured him of success,
and he set himself to his task with the zest he always felt in bending
another to his will.

"It has been the greatest regret of my life that we quarreled," he
told her when their strained greeting was over. "I felt that I had to
come and see with my own eyes that you are well."

"I am quite well."

"Two people who have been to each other as much as we have been
cannot lightly separate; their lives cannot be divided without a
painful readjustment." He paused, then reflecting that he could
afford a little sentimental extravagance, added, "Flowers cannot
easily be transplanted, and love, after all, is the frailest of
blooms."

"I—think it is perennial. Have you—missed me?" Her dark eyes
were strained and curious.

"My dear, you can never know how much, nor how deeply distressing
this whole affair has been to me." He managed to put an affecting
pathos into words sufficiently banal, for he was an excellent actor.
"I find that I am all sentiment. Under the shell of the hard-headed
business man beats the heart of a school-boy. The memory of the hours
we have spent together, the places we have seen, the joys and
discouragements we have shared, haunts me constantly. Memory can glean
but never renew: 'joy's recollection is no longer joy while sorrow's
memory is sorrow still.'"

The spell of his personality worked strongly upon her.
"Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned
out," she said. "You read that to me once, but I didn't dream that my
own happiness would some day consist of recollection."

"No!" she exclaimed, with a shake of her dark head. "There is some
one besides myself to consider. Natalie is happy here; no one seems to
know or to care what I have done."

"But surely you are not satisfied with this."

He ran his eye critically over the garish newness of the little
hotel parlor. It was flimsy, cheap, fresh with paint, very different
from the surroundings he had given her at Hope. "I wonder that he
presumed to offer you this after what you have had. A hotel-keeper! A
landlady!"

"I was glad to get even this, for I have no pride now," she
returned, coldly. "At least the house is honest, and the men who come
here are the same. Mr. O'Neil is especially kind to Natalie, and she
thinks a great deal of him."

"I presume he wants to marry her."

"I pray that he will. I don't intend her to make the mistake I
did."

Gordon received this announcement with grim satisfaction. It was
what he had suspected, and it fitted perfectly into his plans.

"I sha'n't allow this to continue, Gloria," he said. "Our
difference has gone far enough, and I sha'n't permit O'Neil to put me
in his debt. We have come to a final understanding, he and I. While my
views on the holiness of the marriage relation have not changed in the
least, still I am ready to follow your wishes."

"You—mean it?" she queried, breathlessly.

"I do. Come home, Gloria."

"Wait! I must tell Natalie." She rose unsteadily and left the
room, while he reflected with mingled scorn and amusement upon the
weakness of human nature and the gullibility of women.

A moment later mother and daughter appeared, arm in arm, both very
pale.

"Is this true?" Natalie demanded.

"Quite true. You and Gloria seem to think I owe something; I never
shirk a debt." Mrs. Gerard's fingers tightened painfully upon her
daughter's arm as he continued: "There is only one condition upon
which I insist: you must both return to Hope at once and have done
with this—this man."

Natalie hesitated, but the look in her mother's eyes decided her.
With some difficulty she forced herself to acquiesce, and felt the
grip upon her arm suddenly relax. "When will the wedding take place?"
she asked.

"No!" cried Natalie. "We can't go back to Hope until she is
married; it would be scandalous."

"Why more scandalous to accept my protection than that of a
stranger? Do you care what these people think?" he demanded, with an
air of fine scorn.

"Yes! I care very much."

"Is there any—reason for waiting?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Many! Too many to enumerate. It is my condition that you both
leave Omar at once."

Gloria Gerard looked at her daughter in troubled indecision, but
Natalie answered firmly:

"We can't do that."

"So! You have your own plans, no doubt, and it doesn't trouble you
that you are standing in the way of your mother's respectability!" His
voice was harsh, his sneer open. "Bless my soul! Is the generosity to
be all on my side? Or has this man O'Neil forbidden you to associate
with me?"

"I don't trust you." Natalie flared up. "I'm afraid you are
trying—"

"It is my condition, and I am adamant. Believe me, O'Neil knows of
your disgrace, or will learn of it in time. It would be well to
protect your name while you can." Turning to the other woman, he said
loudly: "Gloria, the girl is ready to sacrifice you to her own ends."

"Wait!" Natalie's nerves were tingling with dislike of the man,
but she said steadily: "I shall do exactly as mother wishes."

Curtis Gordon's men broke camp upon his return from Omar, and by
taking the east bank of the Salmon River pressed through to the upper
valley. Here they recrossed to the west side and completed their
survey, with the exception of the three-mile gap which Dan Appleton
held.

Gordon continued to smart under the sting of his defeat, however.
O'Neil had gotten the better of him in argument, and Natalie's
simplicity had proved more than a match for his powers of persuasion.
At no time had he seriously considered making Mrs. Gerard his wife,
but he had thought to entice the two women back under his own roof, in
order to humble both them and their self- appointed protector. He felt
sure that Natalie's return to Hope and her residence there would
injure her seriously in the eyes of the community, and this would be a
stab to O'Neil. Although he had failed for the moment, he did not
abandon the idea. His display of anger upon leaving the hotel had been
due mainly to disappointment at the checkmate. But knowing well the
hold he possessed upon the older woman, he laid it away for later use
when the fight grew hot, and meanwhile devoted himself to devising
further measures by which to harass his enemy and incidentally advance
his own fortunes.

Gordon's business career had consisted of a series of brilliant
manipulations whereby, with little to go upon, he had forced
financial recognition for himself. No one knew better than he the
unstable foundation beneath his Alaskan enterprises; yet more than
once he had turned as desperate ventures into the semblance of
success. By his present operations he sought not only to hamper
O'Neil, but to create an appearance of opposition to both him and the
Trust that could be coined into dollars and cents. There are in the
commercial world money wolves who prey upon the weak and depend upon
the spirit of compromise in their adversaries. Gordon was one of
these. He had the faculty of snatching at least half a victory from
apparent defeat, and for this reason he had been able to show a record
sufficiently impressive to convince the average investor of his
ability.

By purchasing for a song the McDermott rights at Kyak he had
placed himself in position to share in the benefits of the Heidlemann
breakwater, and by rapidly pushing his tracks ahead he made his
rivalry seem formidable. As a means of attack upon O'Neil he adopted a
procedure common in railroad-building. He amended his original survey
so that it crossed that of the S. R. N. midway between the lower
bridge over the Salmon River and the glaciers, and at that point began
the hasty erection of a grade.

It was at the cost of no little inconvenience that he rushed
forward a large body of men and supplies, and began to lay track
across the S. R. N. right-of-way. If Appleton could hold a hillside,
he reasoned, he himself could hold a crossing, if not permanently, at
least for a sufficient length of time to serve his purpose.

His action came as a disagreeable surprise to Omar. These battles
for crossings have been common in the history of railroading, and
they have not infrequently resulted in sanguinary affrays. Long after
the ties are spiked and the heads are healed, the legal rights
involved have been determined, but usually amid such a tangle of
conflicting testimony and such a confusion of technicalities as to
leave the justice of the final decision in doubt. In the unsettled
conditions that prevailed in the Salmon River valley physical
possession of a right-of-way was at least nine-tenths of the law, and
O'Neil realized that he must choose between violence and a compromise.
Not being given to compromise, he continued his construction work, and
drew closer, day by day, to the point of contact.

Reports came from the front of his opponent's preparations for
resistance. Gordon had laid several hundred yards of light rails upon
his grade, and on these he had mounted a device in the nature of a
"go-devil" or skip, which he shunted back and forth by means of a
donkey-engine and steel cable. With this in operation across the point
of intersection like a shuttle, interference would be extremely
dangerous. In addition, he had built blockhouses and breast-works of
ties, and in these, it was reported, he had stationed the pick of his
hired helpers, armed and well provisioned.

Toward this stronghold Murray O'Neil's men worked, laying his
road-bed as straight as an arrow, and as the intervening distance
decreased anxiety and speculation at Omar increased.

Among those who hung upon the rumors of the approaching clash with
greatest interest was Eliza Appleton. Since Dan's departure for the
front she had done her modest best to act the part he had forced upon
her, and in furtherance of their conspiracy she had urged O'Neil to
fulfil his promise of taking her over the work. She felt an
ever-growing curiosity to see those glaciers, about which she had
heard so much; and she reflected, though not without a degree of
self-contempt, that nothing could be more favorable to her design than
the intimacy of several days together on the trail. Nothing breeds a
closer relationship than the open life, nothing brings people more
quickly into accord or hopeless disagreement. Although she had no
faintest idea that Murray could or would ever care seriously for her,
she felt that there was a bare possibility of winning his transient
interest and in that way, perhaps, affording her brother time in which
to attain his heart's desire. Of course, it was all utterly absurd,
yet it was serious enough to Dan; and her own feelings—well, they
didn't matter.

She was greatly excited when O'Neil announced one evening:

"I'm ready to make that trip to the front, if you are. I have
business at Kyak; so after we've seen the glaciers we will go down
there and you can take in the coal-fields."

"Oh yes! It's an opportunity she shouldn't miss, and I thought it
would be pleasanter for you if she went with us."

Eliza was forced to acknowledge his thoughtfulness, although it
angered her to be sacrificed to the proprieties. Her newspaper
training had made her feel superior to such things, and this of all
occasions was one upon which she would have liked to be free of mere
conventions. But of course she professed the greatest delight.

O'Neil had puzzled her greatly of late; for at times he seemed
wrapped up in Natalie, and at other times he actually showed a
preference for Eliza's own company. He was so impartial in his
attentions that at one moment the girl would waver in her
determination and in the next would believe herself succeeding beyond
her hope. The game confused her emotions curiously. She accused
herself of being overbold, and then she noted with horror that she was
growing as sensitive to his apparent coldness as if she were really in
earnest. She had not supposed that the mere acting of a sentimental
role could so obsess her.

To counteract this tendency she assumed a very professional air
when they set out on the following morning. She was once more Eliza
Appleton the reporter, and O'Neil, in recognition of this fact,
explained rapidly the difficulties of construction which he had met
and overcome. As she began to understand there came to her a fuller
appreciation of the man and the work he was doing. Natalie, however,
could not seem to grasp the significance of the enterprise. She saw
nothing beyond the even gravel road-bed, the uninteresting trestles
and bridges and cuts and fills, the like of which she had seen many
times before, and her comment was childlike. O'Neil, however, appeared
to find her naivete charming, and Eliza reflected bitterly:

"If my nose was perfectly chiseled and my eyebrows nice, he
wouldn't care if my brain was the size of a rabbit's. Here am I,
talking like a human being and really understanding him, while she
sits like a Greek goddess, wondering if her hat is on straight. If
ever I find a girl uglier than I am I'll make her my bosom friend."
She jabbed her pencil viciously at her notebook.

The track by this time had been extended considerably beyond the
lower crossing—a circumstance which rendered their boat journey to
the glaciers considerably shorter than the one Dan had taken with his
cargo of dynamite. When the engine finally stopped it was in the midst
of a tent village beside which flowed one of the smaller branches of
the Salmon. In the distance the grade stretched out across the level
swamps like a thin, lately healed scar, and along its crest
gravel-trains were slowly creeping. An army of men like a row of ants
were toiling upon it, and still farther away shone the white sides of
another encampment.

"Oh! That's Gordon's track," Eliza cried, quickly. "Why, you're
nearly up to him. How do you intend to get across?"

O'Neil nodded at the long thin line of moiling men in the
distance.

"There's a loose handle in each one of those picks," he said.

"Somebody will be killed in that kind of a racket."

"That rests with Gordon. I'm going through."

"Suppose he had said that when Dan stopped him at the canon?"

"If he'd said it and meant it he'd probably have done it. He
bluffs; I don't! I have to go on; he didn't. Now lunch is served; and
since this is our last glimpse of civilization, I advise you to
fortify yourselves. From here on we shall see nothing but the
wilderness."

He led them to a spotless tent which had been newly erected at the
edge of the spruce. It was smoothly stretched upon a framework of
timber, its walls and floor were of dressed lumber, and within were
two cots all in clean linen. There were twin washstands also, and
dressers and rocking-chairs, a table and a stove. On the floor beside
the beds lay a number of deep, soft bear-rugs. A meal was spread amid
glass and figured china and fresh new napery.

"How cozy! Why, it's a perfect dear of a house!" exclaimed
Natalie.

"You will leave everything but your necessaries here, for we are
going light," Murray told them. "You will stop here on our way back
to Kyak, and I'll warrant you'll be glad to see the place by that
time."

"You built this just for us," Eliza said, accusingly.

"Yes. But it didn't take long. I 'phoned this morning that you
were coming." He ran a critical eye over the place to see that its
equipment was complete, then drew out their chairs for them.

A white-coated cook-boy served a luncheon in courses, the quality
of which astonished the visitors, for there was soup, a roast,
delicious vegetables, crisp salad, a camembert which O'Neil had
imported for his private use, and his own particular blend of coffee.

The girls ate with appetites that rivaled those of the men in the
mess-tent near by. Their presence in the heart of a great activity,
the anticipation of adventure to come, the electric atmosphere of
haste and straining effort on every hand excited them. Eliza began to
be less conscious of her secret intention, and Natalie showed a gaiety
rare in her since the shadow of her mother's shame had fallen upon her
life.

The boat crews were waiting when they had finished, and they were
soon under way. A mile of comparatively slack water brought them out
into one of the larger estuaries of the river, and there the long,
uphill pull began. O'Neil had equipped his two companions with high
rubber boots, which they were only too eager to try. As soon as they
got ashore they began to romp and play and splash through the shallows
quite like unruly children. They spattered him mischievously, they
tugged at the towing-ropes with a great show of assistance, they
scampered ahead of the party, keeping him in a constant panic lest
they meet with serious accident.

It was with no little relief that he gave the order to pitch camp
some hours later. After sending them off to pick wild currants, with
a grave warning to beware of bears, he saw to the preparations for the
night. They returned shortly with their hats filled and their lips
stained; then, much to his disgust, they insisted upon straightening
out his tent with their own hands. Once inside its low shelter, they
gleefully sifted sand between his blankets and replaced his pillow
with a rock; then they induced the cook to coil a wet string in his
flapjack. When supper was over and the camp-fires of driftwood were
crackling merrily, they fixed themselves comfortably where their feet
would toast, and made him tell them stories until his eyes drooped
with weariness.

It was late summer, and O'Neil had expected to find the glaciers
less active than usual, but heavy rains in the interior and hot
thawing weather along the coast had swelled the Salmon until many
bergs clogged it, while the reverberations which rolled down the
valley told him that both Garfield and Jackson were caving badly. It
was not the safest time at which to approach the place, he reflected,
but the girls had shown themselves nimble of foot, and he put aside
his uneasiness.

Short though the miles had been and easy as the trip had proved,
Eliza soon found herself wondering that it should be possible to
penetrate this region at all. The snarling river, the charging
icebergs, the caving banks, and the growing menace of that noisy gap
ahead began to have their effect upon her and Natalie; and when the
party finally rounded the point where Murray and Dan had caught their
first glimpse of the lower glacier they paused with exclamations of
amazement. They stood at the upper end of a gorge between low bluffs,
and just across the hurrying flood lay the lower limit of the giant
ice-field. The edge, perhaps six hundred feet distant, was sloping and
mud-stained, for in its slow advance it had plowed a huge furrow,
lifting boulders, trees, acres of soil upon its back. The very bluff
through which the river had cut its bed was formed of the debris it
had thrown off, and constituted a bulwark protecting its flank.
Farther up-stream the slope, became steeper, then changed to a rugged
perpendicular face showing marks of recent cleavage. This palisade
extended on and on, around the nearest bend, following the contour of
the Salmon as far as they could see. The sun was reflected from its
myriad angles and facets in splendid iridescence. Mammoth caves and
caverns gaped. In spots the ice was white, opaque; in other places it
was a light cerulean blue which shaded into purple. Ribbons and faint
striations meandered through it like the streaks in an agate. But what
struck the beholders with overwhelming force was the tremendous, the
unbelievable bulk of the whole slowly moving mass. It reared itself
sheerly three hundred feet high, and along its foot the river hurried,
dwarfed to an insignificant trickle. Here and there it leaned outward
threateningly, bulging from the terrific weight behind; at other
points the muddy flood recoiled from vast heaps which had slid
downward and half dammed its current. Back of these piles the fresh
cleavage showed dazzlingly. On, upward, back into the untracked
mountains it ran through mile upon mile of undulations, until at last
it joined the ice-cap which weighted the plateau. As far as the eye
could follow the river ahead it stood solidly. Across its entire face
it was dripping; a thousand little rills and waterfalls ate into it,
and over it swept a cool, dank breath.

The effect of the first view was overwhelming. Nothing upon the
earth compares in majesty and menace to these dull-eyed monsters of
bygone ages; nothing save the roots of mountains can serve to check
them; nothing less than the ceaseless energy of mighty rivers can
sweep away their shattered fragments.

Murray O'Neil had seen Jackson Glacier many times, but always he
experienced the same feeling of awe, of personal insignificance, as
when he first came stumbling up that gorge more than a year before.

For a long time the girls stood gazing without a word. They seemed
to have forgotten his presence.

"Well?" he said at last.

"Isn't it BIG?" Natalie faltered, with round eyes. "Will it fall
over on us?"

He shook his head. "The river is too wide for that, but when a
particularly big mass drops it makes waves large enough to sweep
everything before them. This bank on our right is sixty feet high,
but I've seen it inundated."

Turning to Eliza, he inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

Her face as she met his was strangely glorified, her eyes were
shining, her fingers tightly interlocked.

"It affects people differently," he said. "I have men who refuse
to make this trip. There's something about Jackson that frightens
them—perhaps it is its nearness. You see, there's no other place on
the globe where we pygmies dare come so close to a live glacier of
this size."

"How can we go on?" Natalie asked. "We must work our boats along
this bank. If the ice begins to crack anywhere near us I want you
both to scamper up into the alders as fast as your rubber boots will
carry you."

"What will you do?" Eliza eyed him curiously.

"Oh, I'll follow; never fear! If it's not too bad, I'll stay with
the boats, of course. But we're not likely to have much difficulty at
this season."

Eliza noted the intensity with which the boatmen were scanning the
passage ahead, and something in O'Neil's tone told her he was speaking
with an assurance he did not wholly feel.

"You have lost some men here, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes. But the greater danger is in coming down. Then we have to
get out in the current and take our chances."

"I'd like to do that!" Her lips were parted, her eyes were
glowing, but Natalie gave a little cry of dismay.

"It's an utterly new sensation," O'Neil admitted. "I've been
thinking of sending you up across the moraine, but the trail is bad,
and you might get lost among the alders—"

"And miss any part of this! I wouldn't do it for worlds." Eliza's
enthusiasm was irresistible, and the expedition was soon under way
again.

Progress was more difficult now, for the river-shore was paved
with smooth, round stones which rolled under foot, and the boats
required extreme attention in the swift current. The farther they
proceeded, the more the ice wall opposite increased in height, until
at last it shut off the mountains behind. Then as they rounded the
first bend a new prospect unfolded itself. The size of Jackson became
even more apparent; the gravel bank under which they crept was steeper
and higher also. In places it was undercut by the action of the waves
which periodically surged across. At such points Murray sent his
charges hurrying on ahead, while he and his men tracked the boats
after them. In time they found themselves opposite the backbone of the
glacier, where the Salmon gnawed at the foot of a frozen cliff of
prodigious height. And now, although there had been no cause for
apprehension beyond an occasional rumble far back or a splitting crack
from near at hand, the men assumed an attitude of strained
watchfulness and kept their faces turned to the left. They walked
quietly, as if they felt themselves in some appalling presence.

At last there came a sound like that of a cannon-shot, and far
ahead of them a fragment loosened itself and went plunging downward.
Although it appeared small, a ridge promptly leaped out from beneath
the splash and came racing down the river's bosom toward them.

"Better go up a bit," O'Neil called to his charges.

The men at the ends of the tow-lines scrambled part way up the
shelving beach and braced themselves, then wrapped the ropes about
their waists, like anchormen on a tug-of-war team. Their companions
waded into the flood and fended the boats off the rocks.

The wave came swiftly, lifting the skiffs high upon the bank, then
it sucked them back amid a tangle of arms and legs. A portion of the
river-bottom suddenly bared itself and as suddenly was submerged
again. The boats plunged and rolled and beat themselves upon the
shore, wrenching the anchormen from their posts. They were half filled
with water too, but the wave had passed and was scudding away
down-stream.

Eliza Appleton came stumbling back over the rock-strewn bank, for
during that first mad plunge she had seen O'Neil go down beneath one
of the rearing craft. A man was helping him out.

"Nothing but my ankle!" he reassured her when she reached his
side. "I was dragged a bit and jammed among the boulders." He sank
down, and his lips were white with pain, but his gray eyes smiled
bravely. The boatman removed his chief's boot and fell to rubbing the
injury, while the girls looked on helplessly.

"Come, come! We can't stay here," Murray told them. He drew on the
boot again to check the swelling.

"Can you walk?" they asked him, anxiously.

"Certainly! Two feet are really unnecessary. A man can get along
nearly as well on one." He hurried his men back to their tasks, and
managed to limp after them, although the effort brought beads of sweat
to his lips and brow.

It was well that he insisted upon haste, for they had not gone far
when the glacier broke abreast of the spot they had just left. There
came a rending crack, terrifying in its loudness; a tremendous tower
of ice separated itself from the main body, leaned slowly outward,
then roared downward, falling in a solid piece like a sky-scraper
undermined. Not until the arc described by its summit had reached the
river's surface did it shiver itself. Then there was a burst as of an
exploded mine. The saffron waters of the Salmon shot upward until they
topped the main rampart, and there separated into a cloud of spray
which rained down in a deluge. Out from the fallen mass rushed a
billow which gushed across the channel, thrashed against the high
bank, then inundated it until the alder thickets on its crest whipped
their tips madly. A giant charge of fragments of every size flew far
out across the flats or lashed the waters to further anger in its
fall.

The prostrate column lay like a wing-dam, half across the stream,
and over it the Salmon piled itself. Disintegration followed; bergs
heaved themselves into sight and went rolling and lunging after the
billow which was rushing down-stream with the speed of a locomotive.
They ground and clashed together in furious confusion as the river
spun them; the greater ones up-ended themselves, casting off muddy
cascades. From the depths of the flood came a grinding and crunching
as ice met rock.

Spellbound, the girls watched that first wave go tearing out of
sight, filling the river bank-full. With exclamations of wonder, they
saw the imprisoned waters break the huge dam to pieces. Finally the
last shattered fragment was hurried out of sight, the flood poured
past unhampered, and overhead the glacier towered silent, unchanged,
staring at them balefully like a blind man with filmed eyes. There
remained nothing but a gleaming scar to show where the cataclysm had
originated.

"If I'd known the river was so high I'd never have brought you,"
O'Neil told them. "It's fortunate we happened to be above that break.
You see, the waves can't run up against the current." He turned to his
men and spurred them on.

It was not until the travelers had reached the camp at the bridge
site that all the wonders of this region became apparent. Then the
two girls, in spite of their fatigue, spent the late afternoon
sight-seeing. At this point they were able to gain a comprehensive
view; for at their backs lay Jackson Glacier, which they had just
passed, and directly fronting them, across a placid lake, was
Garfield, even larger and more impressive than its mate. Thirty, forty
miles it ran back, broadening into a frozen sea out of which scarred
mountain peaks rose like bleak islands, and on beyond the range of
vision was still more ice.

They were surrounded by ragged ramparts. The Salmon River ran
through a broken chalice formed by the encircling hills, and over the
rim of the bowl or through its cracks peered other and smaller ice
bodies. The lake at its bottom was filled by as strange a navy as ever
sailed the sea; for the ships were bergs, and they followed each other
in senseless, ceaseless manoeuvers, towed by the currents which swept
through from the cataract at its upper end. They formed long
battle-lines, they assembled into flotillas, they filed about the
circumference of a devil's whirlpool at the foot of the rapids,
gyrating, bobbing, bowing until crowded out by the pressure of their
rivals. Some of them were grounded, like hulks defeated in previous
encounters, and along the guardian bar which imprisoned them at the
outlet of the lake others were huddled, a mass of slowly dissolving
wreckage.

O'Neil was helped into camp, and when his boot had been cut away
he sent news of his arrival to Dan, who came like an eager
bridegroom.

Appleton found his employer with one foot in a tub of hot water
and his lap full of blueprints. O'Neil explained briefly the
condition of affairs down the river.

"I want some one to make that crossing," he said.

"A volunteer?" asked Dan, with quickened pulses.

"Yes."

"Will I do?"

"I sent for you to give you the first chance—you've been chafing
so at your idleness. We must have steel laid to this point before
snow flies. Every hour counts. I daren't risk Mellen or McKay, for
they might be disabled. I intended to take charge myself, but I won't
be able to walk now for some time." He swore a little, and Dan nodded
sympathetically. "I wouldn't send anybody where I'd refuse to go
myself. You understand?"

"Of course."

"If either McKay or Mellen were hurt I couldn't build the bridge,
and the bridge must be built."

"If Gordon stands pat somebody may be—hurt."

"I don't look for anything worse than a few broken heads, but of
course I can't tell. I'll stand behind you with my last dollar, no
matter what happens."

Dan laughed. "As I understand the situation you won't have a
dollar unless we make the crossing."

"Right!" O'Neil smiled cheerfully. "The life of the S. R. N.
depends upon it. I'd give ten thousand dollars for your right ankle."

"You can have it for nothing, Chief. I'd amputate the whole leg
and present it to you," Dan declared earnestly.

Murray took his hand in a hearty grip. "Perhaps I'll be able to
serve you some time," he said, simply. "Anyhow, I'll look out for the
chance. Now spend the evening with the girls, and leave in the
morning. I'll be down as soon as I can travel, to watch the fight from
the side-lines." O'Neil's voice was level, but his teeth were shut and
his fingers were clenched with rage at his disability.

Dan hurried away highly elated, but when he told Eliza of the part
he had undertaken she stormed indignantly.

"Why, the brute! He has no right to send you into danger. This
isn't war."

"So he sacrifices you! I won't permit it. Your life and safety are
worth more than all his dollars. Let his old railroad go to smash!"

"Wait! More than my safety depends on this. He said he'd wait for
a chance to pay me back. If I do this he'll owe me more than any man
on the job, and when he learns that I love Natalie—"

"Dan!" exclaimed his sister.

"Oh, he'll make good!"

"Why, you're worse than he! The idea of suggesting such a thing!"

"Don't preach! I've had nothing to do lately but think of her;
she's always in my mind. The loneliness up here has made me feel more
than ever that I can't exist without her. The river whispers her name;
her face looks at me from the campfire; the wind brings me her
messages—"

"Fiddlesticks! She saves her messages for him. When a man reaches
the poetical stage he's positively sickening. You'll be writing
verses next."

"I've written 'em," Dan confessed, sheepishly; "oceans of mush."

"Fancy! Thank Heaven one of us is sane."

"Our dispositions were mixed when we were born, Eliza. You're
unsentimental and hard-headed: I'm romantic. You'll never know what
love means."

"If you are a sample, I hope not." Eliza's nose assumed an even
higher tilt than usual.

"Well, if I knew I had no chance with Natalie I'd let Gordon's men
put an end to me—that's how serious it is. But I have a chance—I
know I have."

"Bosh! You've lived in railroad camps too long. I know a dozen
girls prettier than she." Eying him with more concern, she asked,
seriously, "You wouldn't really take advantage of a service to Murray
O'Neil to—to tell him the nature of your insanity?"

"I might not actually tell him, but I'd manage it so he'd find
out."

"Don't you think Natalie has something to say? Don't you think she
is more than a piece of baggage waiting to be claimed by the first man
who comes along?" sputtered Miss Appleton in fine disgust at this
attitude. "She has more sense and determination than any girl, any
pretty girl, I ever saw. That's one reason why I hate her so. There's
no use trying to select a husband for her. When the time comes she'll
do the selecting herself. She'll knock over all our plans and walk
blushingly up to the altar with O'Neil, leaving us out on the sidewalk
to cheer. I'm sorry I ever tried to help you! I'm going to quit and
get back my self- respect."

"You'll do no such thing. You'll continue to help your poor red-
headed brother to the finish. Say! When I'm alone I'm just bursting
with optimism; when I'm with you I wither with despair; when I'm with
Natalie I become as heavy and stupid as a frog full of buckshot—I
just sit and blink and bask and revel in a sort of speechless bliss.
If she ever saw how really bright and engaging I am—"

"You!" Eliza sniffed. "You're as uninteresting as I am."

"Now that you've pledged your undying support, here goes for some
basking," said Dan; and he made off hastily in search of Miss Gerard.

Eliza had really made up her mind to wash her hands of the affair,
but she wavered, and, as usual, she gave in. She did go to O'Neil to
protest at Dan's selection for the post of danger, but after talking
with him she began to see the matter in a new light, and her
opposition weakened. He showed her that the S. R. N. had an
individuality of its own—an individuality greater than Murray
O'Neil's, or Dan Appleton's, or that of any man connected with it. She
began to understand that it was a living thing, and that O'Neil was
merely a small part of it—a person driven by a power outside himself,
the head servant of a great undertaking, upon whom rested a heavy
responsibility. She saw for the first time that the millions invested
in the project imposed upon those concerned with its management a
sacred duty, and that failure to defend the company's rights would be
the worst sort of treachery. She began to appreciate also how men may
be willing to lay down their lives, if necessary, to pave the way for
the march of commerce.

"I never looked at it in this way," she told him, when he had
finished. "I—don't like to take that view of it, even now, but I
suppose I must."

"Try not to worry about Dan," he said, sympathetically. "We'll
start back as soon as I'm able to move around, and I'll do my best to
see that he isn't hurt. It's—tough to be laid up this way."

"There's another sick man in camp, by the way."

"Who?"

"The Indian boy who helps the cook. He was hunting and shot
himself in the arm."

"They told me he was doing well."

"Oh, he is, but the pain has kept the poor fellow awake until he's
nearly out of his head. There are no drugs here."

"None this side of the end of the track."

"Can't we do something?"

"We can give Dan a note to 'Happy Tom' in the morning and have
whatever you want sent up. Tom will be there, and perhaps if you ask
him he'll despatch a man on foot at once."

Seizing pen and paper from the table, Eliza wrote a note, which
she read aloud:

"DEAR UNCLE TOM,—There is a sick Indian here. Won't you please
send up an opiate by special messenger, and receive the blessing of,
Your affectionate, ELIZA."

Murray had expected to begin the return journey within twenty-
four hours after his arrival; but his injury mended slowly, and when
the time came he was still unable to stand. This interval the girls
spent in watching the glaciers, of which they never seemed to tire,
and in spoiling many films.

It was late on the second day when a tired and sodden messenger
bearing the marks of heavy travel appeared at O'Neil's tent and
inquired for Miss Appleton. To her he handed a three-foot bundle and
a note from Tom Slater which read:

DEAR MADAM,—Here is the best thing I know of to put an Indian
to sleep. THOS. SLATER.

"There's some mistake, surely," said the girl, as she unrolled the
odd-looking package; then she cried out angrily, and O'Neil burst into
laughter. For inside the many wrappings was a pick- handle.

Eliza's resentment at "Happy Tom's" unsympathetic sense of humor
was tempered in a measure by the fact that the patient had taken a
turn for the better and really needed no further medical attention.
But she was not accustomed to practical jokes, and she vowed to make
Tom's life miserable if ever the occasion offered.

As the days wore on and Murray remained helpless his impatience
became acute, and on the fourth morning he determined to leave, at
whatever cost in pain or danger to the injury. He gave orders,
therefore, to have a boat prepared, and allowed himself to be carried
to it. The foreman of the bridge crew he delegated to guide the girls
down across the moraine, where he promised to pick them up. The men
who had come with him he sent on to the cataract where Dan had been.

"Aren't you coming with us?" asked Natalie, when they found him
seated in the skiff with an oarsman.

"It's rough going. I'd have to be carried, so I prefer this," he
told them.

"Then we'll go with you," Eliza promptly declared.

Natalie paled and shook her dark head. "Is it safe?" she ventured.

"No, it isn't! Run along now! I'll be down there waiting, when you
arrive."

"If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for us," said
Eliza. Climbing into the boat, she plumped herself down with a look
which seemed to defy any power to remove her. Her blue eyes met
O'Neil's gray ones with an expression he had never seen in them until
this moment.

She scowled like an angry boy, and seized the gunwales firmly. Her
expression made him smile despite his annoyance, and this provoked her
the more.

"I'm going!" she asserted, darkly.

This outing had done wonders for both girls. The wind and the
sunshine had tanned them, the coarse fare had lent them a hearty
vigor, and they made charming pictures in their trim short skirts and
sweaters and leather-banded hats.

"Very well! If you're going, take off your boots," commanded
O'Neil.

"What for?"

"We may be swamped and have to swim for it. You see the man has
taken his off." Murray pointed to the raw-boned Norwegian oarsman,
who had stripped down as if for a foot-race.

Eliza obeyed.

"Now your sweater."

Natalie had watched this scene with evident concern. She now
seated herself upon a boulder and began to tug at her rubber boots.

"Here! Here! You're not going, too!" O'Neil exclaimed.

"Yes, I am. I'm frightened to death, but I won't be a coward." Her
shaking hands and strained voice left no doubt of her seriousness.

"She can't swim," said Eliza; and O'Neil put an end to this
display of heroism with a firm refusal.

"You'll think I'm afraid," Natalie expostulated.

"Bless you, of course we will, because you are! So am I, and so is
Eliza, for that matter. If you can't swim you'd only be taking a
foolish risk and adding to our danger. Besides, Eliza doesn't know the
feel of cold water as we do."

Natalie smiled a little tremulously at recollection of the
shipwreck.

"I'd much rather walk, of course," she said; and then to Eliza,
"It—it will be a lovely ramble for us."

But Eliza shook her head. "This is material for my book, and I'll
make enough out of it to—to—"

"Buy another orchard," Murray suggested.

Feeling more resigned now that the adventure had taken on a purely
financial color, Natalie at length allowed herself to be dissuaded,
and Eliza settled herself in her seat with the disturbing
consciousness that she had made herself appear selfish and rude in
O'Neil's eyes. Nevertheless, she had no notion of changing her mind.

When the other girl had gone the oarsman completed his
preparations by lashing fast the contents of the skiff—a proceeding
which Eliza watched with some uneasiness. O'Neil showed his resentment
by a pointed silence, which nettled her, and she resolved to hold her
seat though the boat turned somersaults.

Word was finally given, and they swung out into the flood. O'Neil
stood as best he could on his firm leg, and steered by means of a
sculling-oar, while the Norwegian rowed lustily.

Bits of drift, patches of froth, fragments of ice accompanied
them, bobbing alongside so persistently that Eliza fancied the boat
must be stationary until, glancing at the river-banks, she saw them
racing past like the panoramic scenery in a melodrama. The same glance
showed her that they were rushing directly toward the upper ramparts
of Jackson Glacier, as if for an assault. Out here in the current
there were waves, and these increased in size as the bed of the Salmon
grew steeper, until the poling-boat began to rear and leap like a
frightened horse. The gleaming wall ahead rose higher with every
instant: it overhung, a giant, crumbling cliff, imposing, treacherous.
Then the stream turned at right angles; they were swept along parallel
with the ice face, and ahead of them for three miles stretched the
gauntlet. The tottering wall seemed almost within reaching distance;
its breath was cold and damp and clammy. O'Neil stood erect and
powerful in the stern, swaying to the antics of the craft, his weight
upon the sweep, his eyes fixed upon the Thing overhead. The Norwegian
strained at his oars while the sweat ran down into his open shirt.
The boat lunged and wallowed desperately, rising on end, falling with
prodigious slaps, drenching the occupants with spray. It was splendid,
terrifying! Eliza clung to her seat and felt her heartbeats smothering
her. Occasionally the oarsman turned, staring past her with round,
frightened eyes, and affording her a glimpse of a face working with
mingled fear and exultation.

Thus far the glacier had not disputed their passage; it maintained
the silence and the immobility of marble; nothing but the snarl of the
surging flood re-echoed from its face. But with the suddenness of a
rifle-shot there came a detonation, louder, sharper than any blast of
powder. The Norwegian cursed; the helmsman dropped his eyes to the
white face in the bow and smiled.

Half a mile ahead of them a mass of ice came rumbling down, and
the whole valley rocked with the sound. Onward the little craft fled,
a dancing speck beneath the majesty of that frozen giant, an atom
threatened by the weight of mountains. At last through the opening of
the gorge below came a glimpse of the flats that led to the sea. A
moment later the boat swung into an eddy and came to rest, bumping
against the boulders.

Eliza's cheeks were burning now, her aching hands relaxed their
hold, and she drew a deep breath—the first of which she had been
conscious since the start, fifteen minutes before.

"Now, on with your boots and your sweater. We'll have an hour's
wait for Natalie."

She gave a cry of surprise and offered him a glimpse of a trim
ankle and a dripping foot.

"See! They're wet, and I wriggled my toes right through my
stockings. I NEVER was so excited."

The boatman fastened the painter and resumed his outer clothing.
O'Neil lit a cigar and asked:

"Tell me, why did you insist on coming?"

"I was afraid something might happen to you."

He raised his brows, and she flushed. "Don't you understand? Dan
would never have forgiven me, and—and—I just HAD to come, that's
all. It's corking material for me—I thought you might upset, and I—I
don't know why I insisted." She bent over her stubborn boots, hiding
her face. She was flaming to the ears, for suddenly she knew the
reason that had prompted her. It rushed upon her like a sense of great
shame. She recalled the desperate grip at her heart when she had seen
him ready to leave, the wildness of her longing to share his danger,
the black fear that he might meet disaster alone. It had all come
without warning, and there had been no time for self-consciousness,
but now she realized the truth. The poignant pain of it made her
fingers clumsy and sent that flood of scarlet to her neck and ears.

When Natalie arrived they cast off, and the remaining miles were
made in a few hours.

Appleton joined them for lunch in the tent they remembered so
well, and professed to be shocked at the report of his sister's
foolhardiness. But whatever may have been Natalie's fear of ridicule,
it promptly disappeared under his complete indorsement of her wisdom
in refraining from such a mad adventure. As if to put her even more at
ease, O'Neil was especially attentive to her; and Eliza reflected
gloomily that men, after all, dislike bravado in women, that a trapeze
artist or a lady balloonist inspires only a qualified admiration.

During O'Neil's absence work had progressed steadily. On his
return he found the grade completed to within a few yards of Gordon's
right-of-way. Although he was still unable to walk, he insisted upon
going to the front, whither he was helped by Appleton and "Happy Tom."

Into the narrow space between the end of his embankment and that
of his rival's a gravel-train was spilling its burden, and a hundred
pick-and-shovel men were busy. The opposing forces also seemed hard at
work, but their activity was largely a pretense, and they showed
plainly that they were waiting for the clash. They were a hard-looking
crew, and their employer had neglected no precaution. He had erected
barricades for their protection until his grade looked like a military
work.

"Oil torches," Slater answered. "Ah! We've been recognized. That
comes from being fat, I s'pose."

As he spoke a donkey-engine at the right of the proposed crossing
set up a noisy rattling, a thin steel cable whipped into view between
the rails, and from the left there appeared a contrivance which O'Neil
eyed curiously. It was a sort of drag, and rode back and forth upon
the rails.

"Happy Tom" nodded his agreement. "Certainly! Never send a boy on
a man's errand."

"And I don't want you to do it either, Tom, for the same reason."

Slater mumbled some sort of sour acquiescence, but Dan would not
be denied.

"You made the offer, and I took it up," he told O'Neil. "Somebody
has to make the first move, and I have a particular need for exactly
one thousand dollars. If they start a rumpus, it will give us the
excuse we're looking for. I've been studying that 'go-devil' through
field-glasses for two days now, and I'll guarantee to put it out of
commission before Gordon's men know what I'm about. Just forget the
reward, if you like, and give me a chance."

Murray hesitated briefly, then gave his permission. "I'd rather
you'd let one of the rough-necks take the chance, but if you
insist—"

"I do."

"Then get your sister's consent—"

Slater swore mournfully, as if from a heart filled with black
despair.

"Ain't that my luck? One cud of gum cost me a thousand dollars!
Hell! It would take a millionaire to afford a habit like that." He
expelled the gum violently and went grumbling off up the track.

"Sis won't object," said Dan, lightly. "She'd offer to do the
trick herself, for she's getting the spirit of the work."

When O'Neil had managed to regain the camp he began preparations
for an attack that very night, using the telephone busily. News of
the coming affray quickly spread, and both the day and night shifts
discussed it excitedly at supper-time.

Nor was the excitement lessened when a loaded gravel-train rolled
in and Dr. Gray descended from it with his emergency kit and two
helpers from the hospital at Omar.

Up to this point both Eliza and Natalie had hoped that the affair
might not, after all, turn out to be very serious, but the presence
of the grim-faced surgeon and the significant preparations he set
about making boded otherwise. Eliza undertook to reason with her
brother, but her words refused to come. As a matter of fact, deep down
in her heart was a great rebellion at the fate which had made her a
woman and thus debarred her from an active part in the struggle.
Natalie, on the other hand, was filled with dread, and she made a much
more vigorous attempt to dissuade Dan from his purpose than did his
sister. But he refused to heed even her, and soon hurried away to
finish his preparations.

After supper the camp settled itself to wait for darkness. Night
was slow in coming, and long before Appleton signified his readiness
speculation was rife. With the approach of twilight the torches along
Gordon's grade began to glow brightly. Then Dan set his watch with
"Happy Tom's," kissed Eliza, and made off across the tundra. He left
the S. R. N. at right angles and continued in that direction for a
mile or more before swinging about in a wide circle which brought him
well to the rear of Gordon's encampment. The gloom now covered his
movements, and by taking advantage of an alder thicket he managed to
approach very closely to the enemy's position. But the footing was
treacherous, the darkness betrayed him into many a fall, and he was
wet, muddy, and perspiring when he finally paused not more than two
hundred feet from the scene of the proposed crossing.

Curtis Gordon was not in charge of his field forces, having left
the command to his favorite jackal, Denny. Beneath his apparent
contempt for the law there lurked a certain caution. He knew his
rival's necessity, he appreciated his cunning, but, wishing to guard
against the possibility of a personal humiliation, he retired to Kyak,
where he was prepared to admit or to deny as much responsibility as
suited him. Denny had not forgotten O'Neil's exposure of his
dishonesty, and his zeal could be relied upon. He personally knew all
the men under him, he had coached them carefully, and he assured
Gordon of his ability to hold his ground.

Dan Appleton, from his covert, measured the preparations for
resistance with some uneasiness, reflecting that if Denny had the
nerve to use firearms he would undoubtedly rout O'Neil's men, who had
not been permitted to carry guns. By the bright torchlight he could
see figures coming and going along the grade like sentinels, and from
within the barricades of ties he heard others talking. The camp
itself, which lay farther to the left, was lighted, and black
silhouettes were painted against the canvas walls and roofs. Some one
was playing an accordion, and its wailing notes came to him
intermittently. He saw that steam was up in the boiler which operated
the "go-devil," although the contrivance itself was stationary. It was
upon this that he centered his attention, consulting his watch
nervously.

At last ten o'clock came, bringing with it a sound which startled
the near-by camp into activity. It was a shrill blast from an S. R.
N. locomotive and the grinding of car-wheels. The accordion ceased its
complaint, men poured out of the lighted tents, Appleton moved
cautiously out from cover.

He stumbled forward through the knee-deep mud and moss, bearing
slightly to his right, counting upon the confusion to mask his
approach. He timed it to that of the gravel-train, which came slowly
creaking nearer, rocking over the uneven tracks, then down upon the
half-submerged rails which terminated near the opposing grade. It
stopped finally, with headlight glaring into the faces of Denny and
his troops, and from the high-heaped flat cars tumbled an army of
pick-and-shovel men. During this hullabaloo Appleton slipped out of
the marsh and climbed the gravel-bed in time to see the steel cable of
the skip tighten, carrying the drag swiftly along the track. The
endless cable propelling the contrivance ran through a metal block
which was secured to a deadhead sunk between the ties, and up to this
post Dan hastened. He carried a cold-chisel and hammer, but he found
no use for them, for the pulley was roped to the deadhead. Drawing his
knife, he sawed at the manila strands. Men were all around him, but
in their excitement they took no notice of him. Not until he had
nearly completed his task was he discovered; then some one raised a
shout. The next instant they charged upon him, but his work had been
done. With a snap the ropes parted, the cable went writhing and
twisting up the track, the unwieldy apparatus came to a stop.

Dan found himself beset by a half-dozen of the enemy, who, having
singled him out of the general confusion as the cause of disaster,
came at him head-long. But by this time O'Neil's men were pouring out
of the darkness and overrunning the grade so rapidly that there was
little opportunity for concerted action. Appleton had intended, as
soon as he had cut the cable, to beat a hasty retreat into the marsh;
but now, with the firm gravel road- bed under his feet and the battle
breaking before his eyes, he changed his mind. He carried a light
heart, and the love of trouble romped through his veins. He lowered
his head, therefore, and ran toward his assailants.

He met the foremost one fairly and laid him out. He vanquished the
second, then closed with a burly black man who withstood him capably.
They went down together, and Dan began to repent his haste, for blows
rained upon him and he became the target, not only of missiles of
every kind, but of heavy hobnailed shoes that were more dangerous than
horses' hoofs.

The engineer dearly loved a fair fight, even against odds, but
this was entirely different: he was trampled, stamped upon, kicked;
he felt himself being reduced to a pulp beneath the overpowering
numbers of those savage heels. The fact that the black man received an
equal share of the punishment was all that saved Dan. Over and over
between the ties the two rolled, scorning no advantage, regarding no
rules of combat, each striving to protect himself at the other's
expense.

They were groveling there in a tangle of legs and arms when "Happy
Tom" came down the grade, leading a charge which swept the embankment
clean.

The boss packer had equipped his command with pick-handles and now
set a brilliant example in the use of this, his favorite weapon. For
once the apathetic Slater was fully roused; he was tremendous,
irresistible. In his capable grasp the oaken cudgel became both armor
and flail; in defense it was as active as a fencing-master's foil, in
offense as deadly as the kick of a mule. Beneath his formless bulk
were the muscles of a gladiator; his eye had all the quickness of a
prize-fighter. There was something primeval, appallingly ferocious
about the fat man, too: he fought with a magnificent enthusiasm, a
splendid abandon. And yet, in spite of his rage, he was clear-headed,
and his ears were sensitively strained for the sound of the first
gunshot-something he dreaded beyond measure.

He was sobbing as much from anxiety as from the violence of his
exertions when he tore Appleton from the clutch of the black man and
set him on his feet.

"Are you hurt, son?" he gasped.

"Sure! I'm—hurt like hell." Dan spat out a mouthful of blood and
sand. "Gimme a club."

"Go back yonder," Tom directed, swiftly. "Nail Denny before he
gets 'em to shooting. Kill him if you have to. I'll take care of
these fellers."

The younger man saw that the engagement at this end of the line
was no longer general, but had become a series of individual combats,
so he made what haste he could toward the scene of the more serious
encounter to the right of the crossing. He judged that the issue was
still in doubt there, although he could make out little in the
confusion on account of the glaring headlight, which dazzled him.

As he ran, however, he discovered that the S. R. N. forces were in
possession of the middle ground, having divided the enemy's ranks like
a wedge, and this encouraged him. Out of the darkness to right and
left came shouts, curses, the sounds of men wallowing about in the
knee-deep tundra. They were Gordon's helpers who had been routed from
their positions.

Now that Appleton had time to collect himself he, too, grew sick
with suspense, for he knew that arms had been stacked inside the
barricades. Any instant might bring them into play. He began to
wonder why Denny withheld the word to fire.

As a matter of fact, the explanation was simple, although it did
not appear until later. Mr. Denny at that moment was in no condition
to issue orders of any kind, the reason being as follows: when
preparations for the advance were made, Dr. Gray, who understood
perhaps more fully than any one else except O'Neil the gravity of the
issue and the slender pivot upon which the outcome balanced, had taken
his place in the vanguard of the attacking party instead of in the
background, as befitted his calling. The first rush had carried him
well into the fray, but once there he had shown his good judgment by
refusing to participate in it.

Instead, he had selected Denny out of the opposing ranks and bored
through the crowd in his direction, heedless of all efforts to stop
him. His great strength had enabled him to gain ground; he had hurled
his assailants aside, upsetting them, bursting through the press as a
football-player penetrates a line; and when the retreat had begun he
was close at the heels of his victim. He had overtaken Denny beside
one of the barricades just as Denny seized a rifle and raised it. With
one wrench he possessed himself of the weapon, and the next instant he
had bent the barrel over its owner's head.

Then, as the fight surged onward, he had gathered the limp figure
in his arms and borne it into the light of a gasolene-torch, where he
could administer first aid. He was kneeling over the fellow when
Appleton found him as he came stumbling along the grade.

But the decisive moment had come and gone now, and without a
leader to command them Gordon's men seemed loath to adopt a more
bloody reprisal. They gave way, therefore, in a half-hearted
hesitation that spelled ruin to their cause. They were forced back to
their encampment: over the ground they had vacated picks and shovels
began to fly, rails were torn up and relaid, gravel rained from the
flat cars, the blockhouses were razed, and above the rabble the
locomotive panted and wheezed, its great yellow eye glaring through
the night. When it backed away another took its place; the grade rose
to the level of the intersection, then as morning approached it crept
out beyond. By breakfast-time a long row of flats extended across the
line which Curtis Gordon had tried to hold in defiance of the law.

Dan Appleton, very dirty, very tired, but happy, found Natalie and
Eliza awaiting him when he limped up to their tent in the early
morning light. One of his eyes was black and nearly closed, his lips
were cut and swollen, but he grinned cheerfully as he exclaimed:

"Say! It was a great night, wasn't it?"

Eliza cried out in alarm at his appearance.

"You poor kid! You're a sight." She ran for hot water and soap,
while Natalie said, warmly:

"You were perfectly splendid, Dan. I knew you'd do it."

"Did you?" He tried to smile his appreciation, but the effort
resulted in a leer so repulsive that the girl looked dismayed. "You
ought to have seen the shindy."

"Seen it! Maybe we didn't!"

"Honestly?"

"Did you think we could stay behind? We sneaked along with the
cook-house gang, and one of them helped us up on the gravel-cars. He
smelled of dish-water, but he was a hero. We screamed and cried, and
Eliza threw stones until Mr. O'Neil discovered us and made us get
down. He was awfully mean."

"He's a mean man."

"He isn't! He was jumping around on one leg like a crippled
grasshopper."

"I made a thousand dollars," said Dan. "Guess what I'm going to do
with it?"

"How can I guess?"

"I'm going to buy an engagement ring." Once more he leered
repulsively.

"How nice!" said Natalie, coolly. "Congratulations!"

"Guess who it's for?"

"I couldn't, really."

"It's for you."

"Oh no, it isn't!" Natalie's voice was freezing. "You have made a
mistake, a very great mistake, Dan. I like you, but—we won't even
mention such things, if you please."

Eliza's entrance saved her further embarrassment, and she quickly
made her escape. Dan groaned so deeply as his sister bathed his
injuries that she was really concerned.

"Goodness, Danny," she said, "are you as badly hurt as all that?"

"I'm worse," he confessed. "I've just been shot through the heart.
Slow music and flowers for me! Arrange for the services and put a rose
in my hand, Sis."

Under Dr. Gray's attention O'Neil's ankle began to mend, and by
the time the track had been laid far enough beyond the crossing to
insure against further interference from Gordon he declared himself
ready to complete the journey to Kyak, which he and the girls had
begun nearly three weeks before.

During the interval Eliza had occupied herself in laying out her
magazine stories, and now she was eager to complete her
investigations so as to begin the final writing. Her experience in
the north thus far had given her an altered outlook upon the railroad
situation, but as yet she knew little of the coal problem. That, after
all, was the more important subject, and she expected it to afford her
the basis for a sensational exposure. She had come to Alaska sharing
her newspaper's views upon questions of public policy, looking upon
Murray O'Neil as a daring promoter bent upon seizing the means of
transportation of a mighty realm for his own individual profit; upon
Gordon as an unscrupulous adventurer; and upon the Copper Trust as a
greedy corporation reaching out to strangle competition and absorb the
riches of the northland. But she had found O'Neil an honorably
ambitious man, busied, like others, in the struggle for success, and
backing his judgment with his last dollar. She had learned, moreover,
to sympathize with his aims, and his splendid determination awoke her
admiration. Her idea of the Trust had changed, likewise, for it seemed
to be a fair and dignified competitor. She had seen no signs of that
conscienceless, grasping policy usually imputed to big business. In
regard to Gordon alone, her first conviction had remained unchanged.
He was, in truth, as evil as he had been reputed.

The readjustment of her ideas had been disappointing, in a way,
since it robbed her of a large part of her ammunition; but she
consoled herself with the thought that she had not yet reached the
big, vital story which most deeply concerned the welfare of the north.

She was a bit afraid to pursue her inquiries into the coal
subject, for her ideas were fixed, and she feared that O'Neil's
activities merited condemnation. In his railroad-building, she
believed, he was doing a fine work, but the coal was another matter.
Obviously it belonged to the people, and he had no right to lay hands
upon their heritage.

She wondered if it would not be possible to omit all mention of
him in her coal stories and center attention upon the Trust. It was
impossible for her to attack him now, since she had come to understand
her feelings toward him. Even so, she reflected with horror that if
her articles created the comment she anticipated their effect would be
to rob him of his holdings. But she took her work very seriously, and
her sense of duty was unwavering. She was one of the few who guide
themselves by the line of principle, straight through all other
considerations. She would write what she found true, for that was her
mission in life. If Murray proved culpable she would grieve over his
wrong-doing—and continue to love him.

O'Neil had recognized her sincerity, and on the broad subject of
conservation he had done nothing to influence her views. He preferred
to let her see the workings of the principle and, after actually
meeting some of those who had suffered by it, form her own
conclusions. It was for this reason mainly that he had arranged the
trip to Kyak.

The journey in a small boat gave Eliza a longed-for opportunity to
discuss with him the questions which troubled her. He was
uncommunicative at first, but she persisted in her attempt, drawing
him out in the hope of showing him the error of his ways. At last she
provoked him to a vigorous defense of his views.

"Conservation is no more than economy," he declared, "and no one
opposes that. It's the misapplication of the principle that has
retarded Alaska and ruined so many of us. The situation would be
laughable if it weren't so tragic."

"Of course you blame your troubles on the Government. That's one
thing governments are for."

"Our ancestors blamed King George for their troubles, more than a
hundred years ago, and a war resulted. But every abuse they suffered
is suffered by the people of Alaska to-day, and a lot more besides.
Certainly England never violated her contracts with the colonies half
so flagrantly as our Government has violated its contracts with us."

"Of course you exaggerate."

"I don't. Judge for yourself. The law offers every citizen the
chance—in fact, it invites him—to go upon the public domain and
search for treasure. If he is successful it permits him to locate the
land in blocks, and it agrees to grant him a clear title after he does
a certain amount of work and pays a fixed price. Further, it says in
effect: 'Realizing that you may need financial assistance in this
work, we will allow you to locate not only for yourself, but also for
your friends, through their powers of attorney, and thus gain their
co-operation for your mutual advantage. These are the rules, and they
are binding upon all parties to this agreement; you keep your part, we
will keep ours." Now then, some pioneers, at risk of life and health,
came to Kyak and found coal. They located it, they did all the law
required them to do—but did the Government keep its word? Not at
all. It was charged that some of them hadn't conformed strictly to
the letter of the agreement, and therefore all the claims were
blacklisted. Because one man was alleged to have broken his contract
the Government broke its contract with every man who had staked a coal
claim, not only at Kyak, but anywhere else in Alaska. Guilty and
innocent were treated alike. I was one of the latter. Was our money
returned to us? No! The Government had it and it kept it, along with
the land. We've been holding on now for years, and the Interior
Department has tried by various means to shake us off. The law has
been changed repeatedly at the whim of every theorist who happened to
be in power. It has been changed without notice to us even while we
were out in the wilderness trying to comply with the regulations
already imposed. You can see how it worked in the case of Natalie and
her mother. The Government succeeded in shaking them off."

"That's only one side of the question," said Eliza. "You lose
sight of the fact that this treasure never really belonged to you,
but to the public. The coal-lands were withdrawn from entry because
men like you and the agents of the Heidlemanns were grabbing it all
up."

O'Neil shook his head, frowning. "That's what the papers say, but
it isn't true. There are twenty million acres of coal in Alaska, and
not more than thirty thousand acres have been located. The law gave me
the right to locate and buy coal claims, and I took advantage of it.
Now it tells me that I have money enough, and takes back what it gave.
If it did the right thing it would grant patents to those who located
under the law as it then existed and withdraw the rest of the land
from entry if advisable. This country needs two things to make it
prosper—transportation and fuel. We are doing our best to supply the
first in spite of hindrance from Washington; but the fuel has been
locked away from us as if behind stone walls. Rich men must be brave
to risk their dollars here under existing conditions, for they are not
permitted to utilize the mines, the timber, or the water-power,
except upon absurd and unreasonable terms. Why, I've seen timber
lying four layers deep and rotting where it lies. The Government
won't save it, nor will it allow us to do so. That's been its policy
throughout. It is strangling industry and dedicating Alaska to eternal
solitude. Railroads are the keys by which this realm can be unlocked;
coal is the strength by which those keys can be turned. The keys are
fitted to the lock, but our fingers are paralyzed. For eight years
Alaska's greatest wealth has lain exposed to view, but the Government
has posted the warning, 'Hands off! Some one among you is a crook!'
Meanwhile the law has been suspended, the country has stagnated, men
have left dispirited or broken, towns have been abandoned. The cost in
dollars to me, for instance, has been tremendous. I'm laying my track
alongside rich coal-fields, but if I picked up a chunk from my own
claim to throw at a chipmunk I'd become a lawbreaker. I import from
Canada the fuel to drive my locomotives past my own coal-beds—which I
have paid for—and I pay five times the value of that fuel, forty
percent of which is duty. I haul it two thousand miles, while there
are a billion tons of better quality beneath my feet. Do you call that
conservation? I call it waste."

"Fraud was practised at the start, and of course it takes time to
find out just where it lay."

"That's the excuse, but after all these years no fraud has been
proved. In administering the criminal law there is an axiom to the
effect that it is better for ninety-nine guilty men to escape than for
one innocent man to suffer, but the Land Office says that ninety-nine
innocent Alaskans shall suffer rather than that one guilty man shall
escape. The cry of fraud is only a pretense, raised to cover the main
issue. There's something sinister back of it."

"What do you mean?"

"A conspiracy of the Eastern coal-operators and the
transcontinental freight-lines."

"How ridiculous!" cried Eliza.

"You think so? Listen! Since all the high-grade coal of the
Pacific coast must come from the East, who, then, would discourage
the opening of local fields but those very interests? Every ton we
burn means a profit to the Eastern miner and the railroad man. Yes,
and twenty per cent. of the heat units of every ton hauled are
consumed in transportation. Isn't that waste? Every two years it costs
our navy the price of a battle- ship to bring coal to the Pacific
fleet, while we have plenty of better fuel right here on the ground.
Our coal is twenty-five hundred miles nearer to the Philippines than
San Francisco, and twelve thousand miles nearer than its present
source. If Alaskan coal-beds were opened up, we wouldn't have this
yearly fight for battle-ship appropriations; we'd make ourselves a
present of a first-class navy for nothing. No, our claims were
disputed, and the dispute was thrown into politics to keep us out of
competition with our Eastern cousins. We Alaskans sat in a game with
high stakes, but after the cards were dealt the rules were changed."

"You argue very well," said Eliza, who was a bit dazed at this
unexpected, forceful counter-attack, "but you haven't convinced me
that this coal should be thrown open to the first person who comes
along."

"I didn't expect to convince you. It's hard to convince a woman
whose mind is made up. It would take hours to cover the subject; but
I want to open your eyes to the effect of this new-fangled national
policy. Any great principle may work evil if it isn't properly
directed, and in Kyak you'll see the results of conservation
ignorantly applied. You'll see how it has bound and gagged a wonderful
country, and made loyal Americans into ragged, bitter traitors who
would spit upon the flag they used to cherish."

"Is that the only reason why you came along—just to make sure
that I saw all this?"

"No. I want to look at the Heidlemann breakwater. My fortune hangs
upon it."

"It's as serious as that?"

O'Neil shrugged. "I'm waiting for the wind. My coal is in the
hands of the bureaucracy at Washington, my railroad is in the hands
of the wind god. Incidentally, I'd much rather trust the god than the
Government."

Natalie, who had listened so far without the least sign of
interest, now spoke up.

"If the storm doesn't come to your help, will you be ruined?" she
asked.

Murray smiled cheerfully. "No man is ruined as long as he keeps
his dreams. Money isn't much, after all, and failure is merely a
schooling. But—I won't fail. Autumn is here: the tempest is my
friend; and he won't be long in coming now. He'll arrive with the
equinox, and when he does he'll hold my fortune in his hand."

"Why, the equinoctial storm is due," said Eliza.

"Exactly! That's why I'm going to meet it and to bid it welcome."

The village of Kyak lay near the mouth of the most easterly outlet
of the Salmon, and it was similar in most respects to Hope and to
Omar, save that it looked out across a shallow, unprotected bay to the
open reaches of the north Pacific. The shores were low; a pair of
rocky islets afforded the only shelter to its shipping, and it was
from these as a starting-point that the Copper Trust had built its
break-water. A trestle across the tide-flats connected the work with
the mainland, and along this rock-trains crawled, adding their burdens
to the strength of the barrier. Protected by this arm of steel and
stone and timber lay the terminal buildings of the Alaska Northern, as
the Heidlemann line was called, and there also lay the terminus of the
old McDermott enterprise into which Curtis Gordon had infused new
life. Both places showed plenty of activity when O'Neil and his two
companions arrived, late one afternoon.

Kyak, they found, was inferior to Omar in its public
accommodations, and Murray was at a loss to find shelter for the
girls until his arrival was made known to the agents of the Alaska
Northern. Then Mr. Trevor, the engineer in charge, looked him up and
insisted upon sharing his quarters with the visitors. In Trevor's
bearing was no suggestion of an enmity like Gordon's. He welcomed his
rival warmly—and indeed the Trust had never been small in its
opposition. O'Neil accepted the invitation gratefully.

After dinner he took Natalie with him to see the sights, while
Eliza profited by the opportunity to interview Trevor. In her
numerous tilts with O'Neil she had not been over-successful from the
point of view of her magazine articles, but here at her hand was the
representative of the power best known and best hated for its
activities in the north-land, and he seemed perfectly willing to talk.
Surely from him she would get information that would count.

He shrugged. "The Heidlemanns are just ordinary business men, like
O'Neil, looking for investment. They heard of a great big copper-field
hidden away back yonder in the mountains, and they bought what they
considered to be the best group of claims. They knew the region was
difficult of access, but they figured that a railroad from tide-water
would open up not only their own properties, but the rest of the
copper-belt and the whole interior country. They began to build a road
from Cortez, when some 'shoe-stringer' raised the cry that they had
monopolized the world's greatest copper supply, and had double-cinched
it by monopolizing transportation also. That started the fuss. They
needed cheap coal, of course, just as everybody else needs it; but
somebody discovered the danger of a monopoly of that and set up
another shout. Ever since then the yellow press has been screaming.
The Government withdrew all coal-lands from entry, and it now refuses
to grant patents to that which had been properly located. We don't own
a foot of Alaskan coal-land, Miss Appleton. On the contrary, we haul
our fuel from British Columbia, just like O'Neil and Gordon. Those who
would like to sell local coal to us are prevented from doing so."

"It sounds well to hear you tell it," said Eliza. "But the minute
the coal patents are issued you will buy what you want, then freeze
out the other people. You expect to control the mines, the railroads,
and the steamship lines, but public necessities like coal and oil and
timber and water-power should belong to the people. There has been an
awakening of the public conscience, and the day of monopolized
necessities is passing."

"As long as men own coal-mines they will sell them. Here we are
faced not by a question of what may happen, but of what has happened.
If you agreed to buy a city lot from a real-estate dealer, and after
you paid him his price he refused to give you a deed, you'd at least
expect your money back, wouldn't you? Well, that's the case of Uncle
Sam and the Alaskan miners. He not only refuses to deliver the lot,
but keeps the money, and forces them to pay more every year. I
represent a body of rich men who, because of their power, are regarded
with suspicion; but if they did anything so dishonest as what our
Government has done to its own people they would be jailed."

"No doubt there has been some injustice, but the great truth
remains that the nation should own its natural resources, and should
not allow favored individuals to profit by the public need."

"You mean railroads and coal-fields and such things?"

"I do."

Trevor shook his head. "If the people of Alaska waited for a
Government railroad, they'd die of old age and be buried where they
died, for lack of transportation. The Government owns telegraph-lines
here, but it charges us five times the rates of the Western Union. No,
Miss Appleton, we're not ready for Government ownership, and even if
we were it wouldn't affect the legality of what has been done. Through
fear that the Heidlemanns might profit this whole country has been
made to stagnate. Alaska is being depopulated; houses and stores are
closed; people are leaving despondent. Alaskans are denied
self-government in any form; theories are tried at their expense, but
they are never consulted. Not only does Congress fail to enact new
laws to meet their needs, but it refuses to proceed under the laws
that already exist. If the same policy had been pursued in the
settlement of the Middle West that applies to this country, the
buffalo would still be king of the plains and Chicago would be a
frontier town. You seem to think that coal is the most important
issue up here, but it isn't. Transportation is what the country
needs, for the main riches of Alaska are as useless to-day as if
hidden away in the chasms of the moon. O'Neil had the right idea when
he selected the Salmon River route, but he made an error of judgment,
and he lost."

"Oh, it will hold," Trevor smiled. "It has cost too much money not
to hold."

"Wait until the storms come," the girl persisted.

"That's what we're doing, and from present indications we won't
have much longer to wait. Weather has been breeding for several days,
and the equinox is here. Of course I'm anxious, but—I built that
breakwater, and it can't go out."

When O'Neil and Natalie returned they found the two still arguing.
"Haven't you finished your tiresome discussions?" asked Natalie.

"Mr. Trevor has almost convinced me that the octopus is a noble
creature, filled with high ideals and writhing at the thrusts of the
muck-rakers," Eliza told them.

But at that the engineer protested. "No, no!" he said. "I haven't
half done justice to the subject. There are a dozen men in Kyak
to-night who could put up a much stronger case than I. There's
McCann, for instance. He was a prospector back in the States until he
made a strike which netted him a hundred thousand dollars. He put
nearly all of it into Kyak coal claims and borrowed seventy thousand
more. He got tired of the interminable delay and finally mined a few
tons which he sent out for a test in the navy. It had better steaming
qualities than the Eastern coal now being used, but six weeks later an
agent of the Land Office ordered him to cease work until his title had
been passed upon. That was two years ago, and nothing has been done
since. No charges of irregularity of any sort have ever been filed
against McCann or his property. The Government has had his money for
five years, and still he can't get a ruling. He's broke now and too
old to make a living. He's selling pies on the street—"

"He borrowed a dollar from me just now," said O'Neil, who was
staring out of a window. Suddenly he turned and addressed his host.
"Trevor, it's going to storm." His voice was harsh, his eyes were
eager; his tone brought the engineer to his side. Together they looked
out across the bay.

The southern sky was leaden, the evening had been shortened by a
rack of clouds which came hurrying in from the sea.

"Let it storm," said Trevor, after a moment. "I'm ready."

"Have you ever seen it blow here?"

"The old-timers tell me I haven't, but—I've seen some terrible
storms. Of course the place is unusual—"

"In what way?" Eliza inquired.

"The whole country back of here is ice-capped. This coast for a
hundred miles to the east is glacial. The cold air inland and the
warm air from the Japanese Current are always at war."

"There is a peculiar difference in air-pressures, too," O'Neil
explained. "Over the warm interior it is high, and over the coast
range it is low; so every valley becomes a pathway for the wind. But
that isn't where the hurricanes come from. They're born out yonder."
He pointed out beyond the islands from which the breakwater flung its
slender arm. "This may be only a little storm, Trevor, but some day
the sea and the air will come together and wipe out all your work.
Then you'll see that I was right."

"You told me that more than a year ago, but I backed my skill
against your prophecy."

O'Neil answered him gravely: "Men like you and me become over-
confident of our powers; we grow arrogant, but after all we're only
pygmies."

"If Nature beats me here, I'm a ruined man," said the engineer.

"And if you defeat her, I'm ruined." O'Neil smiled at him.

"Let's make medicine, the way the Indians did, and call upon the
Spirit of the Wind to settle the question," Eliza suggested, with a
woman's quick instinct for relieving a situation that threatened to
become constrained. She and Natalie ran to Trevor's sideboard, and,
seizing bottle and shaker, brewed a magic broth, while the two men
looked on. They murmured incantations, they made mystic passes, then
bore the glasses to their companions.

As the men faced each other Natalie cried:

"To the Wind!"

"Yes! More power to it!" Eliza echoed.

Trevor smiled. "I drink defiance."

"In my glass I see hope and confidence," said O'Neil. "May the
storm profit him who most deserves help."

Despite their lightness, there was a certain gravity among the
four, and as the night became more threatening they felt a growing
suspense. The men's restlessness communicated itself to the girls, who
found themselves listening with almost painful intentness to the voice
of the wind and the rumble of the surf, which grew louder with every
hour. By bed-time a torrent of rain was sweeping past, the roof
strained, the windows were sheeted with water. Now and then the clamor
ceased, only to begin with redoubled force. Trevor's guests were glad
indeed of their snug shelter.

As Natalie prepared for bed she said: "It was fine of Mr. Trevor
to treat Murray O'Neil so nicely. No one would dream that they were
rivals, or that one's success means the other's ruin. Now Gordon—"
She turned to see her friend kneeling at the bedside, and apologized
quickly.

Eliza lifted her face and said simply, "I'm praying for the Wind."

Natalie slipped down beside her and bowed her dark head close to
the light one. They remained there for a long time, while outside the
rain pelted, the surf roared, and the wind came shrieking in from the
sea.

Neither O'Neil nor his host was in sight when the girls came to
breakfast. The men had risen early, it seemed, and were somewhere out
in the storm. A wilder day would be hard to imagine; a hurricane was
raging, the rain was whirled ahead of it like charges of shot. The
mountains behind Kyak were invisible, and to seaward was nothing but a
dimly discernible smother of foam and spray, for the crests of the
breakers were snatched up and carried by the wind. The town was
sodden; the streets were running mud. Stove-pipes were down, tents lay
flattened in the mire, and the board houses were shaking as if they
might fly to pieces at any moment. The darkness was uncanny, and the
tempest seemed to be steadily growing in violence.

When an hour or two had passed with no word from the men Eliza
announced her intention of looking them up. She had spent the time at
a window, straining her eyes through the welter, while Natalie had
curled up cozily with a book in one of Trevor's arm- chairs.

"But, dearie, you'll be drenched." Natalie looked up in surprise.
"Mr. O'Neil is all right."

"Of course he is. I'm not going out to spank him and bring him in.
I want to look at the storm."

"So do I, but it won't do any good. I can't make it blow any
harder by getting my feet wet."

"You read your novel and talk to Mr. Trevor when he comes back. He
knows we're to blame for this storm, so you must be nice to him. I
can't." She clad herself in rain-coat, sou'wester, and boots, and
hurried out. Walking was difficult enough, even in the shelter of the
village, but not until she had emerged upon the beach did she meet the
full strength of the gale. Here it wrapped her garments about her
limbs until she could scarcely move. The rain came horizontally and
blinded her; the wind fairly snatched her breath away and oppressed
her lungs like a heavy weight. She shielded herself as best she could,
and by clinging to stationary objects and watching her chance she
managed to work her way onward. At last she caught sight of O'Neil,
standing high above the surf, facing the wind defiantly, as if daring
it to unfoot him. He saw her and came in answer to her signal; but to
breast that wind was like stemming a rushing torrent, and when he
reached her side he was panting.

"Child! What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I couldn't wait any longer," she shouted back. "You've been out
since daylight. You must be wet through."

He nodded. "I lay awake all night listening. So did Trevor. He's
beginning to worry already."

"Already? If the breakwater stands this—"

"The storm hasn't half started! Come! We'll watch it together." He
took her hand, and they lunged into the gale, battling their way back
to his point of vantage. He paused at length, and with his arm about
her pointed to the milk-white chaos which marked Trevor's handiwork.
The rain pelted against their faces and streamed from their slickers.

The breakwater lay like a reef, and over it the sea was pounding
in mighty wrath. High into the air the waters rose, only to disappear
upon the bosom of the gale. They engulfed the structure bodily, they
raced along it with thunderous detonations, bursting in a lather of
rage. Out beyond, the billows appeared to be sheared flat by the force
of the wind, yet that ceaseless upheaval of spume showed that the
ocean was in furious tumult. For moments at a time the whole scene was
blotted out by the scud, then the curtain would tear asunder and the
wild scene would leap up again before their eyes.

Eliza screamed a question at her companion, but he did not seem to
hear; his eyes roved back and forth along that lace-white ridge of
rock on the weakness of which depended his salvation. She had never
seen him so fierce, so hawklike, so impassive. The gusts shook him,
his garments slatted viciously, every rag beneath his outer covering
was sodden, yet he continued to face the tempest as indifferently as
he had faced it since the dawn. The girl thrilled at thought of the
issue these mighty forces were fighting out before her eyes, and of
what it meant to the man beside her. His interests became hers; she
shared his painful excitement. Her warm flesh chilled as the moisture
embraced her limbs; but her heart was light, for O'Neil's strong arm
encircled her, and her body lay against his.

After a long time he spoke. "See! It's coming up!" he said.

She felt no increase in the wind, but she noted that particles of
sand and tiny pebbles from the beach were flying with the salt
raindrops. Her muscles began to tremble from the constant effort at
resistance, and she was relieved when Murray looked about for a place
of refuge. She pointed to a pile of bridge timbers, but he shook his
head.

"They'll go flying if this keeps up." He dragged her into the
shelter of a little knoll. Here the blasts struck them with
diminished force, the roaring in their ears grew less, and the labor
of breathing was easier.

Rousing himself from his thoughts, the man said, gently:

"Poor kid! You must be cold."

"I'm freezing. But—please don't send me back." The face that met
his was supplicating; the eyes were bluer than a spring day. He
patted her dripping shoulder.

"Not until you're ready."

"This is grander than our trip past the glacier. That was merely
dangerous, but this—means something."

"There may be danger here if we expose ourselves. Look at that!"

High up beyond reach of the surf a dory had been dragged and left
bottom up. Under this the wind found a fingerhold and sent it flying.
Over and over it rolled, until a stronger gust caught it and sent it
in huge leaps, end over end. It brought up against the timber pile
with a crash, and was held there as if by a mighty suction. Then the
beams began to tremble and lift. The pile was disintegrated bit by
bit, although it would have required many hands to move any one of its
parts.

Even where the man and the woman crouched the wind harried them
like a hound pack, but by clinging to the branches of a gnarled
juniper bush they held their position and let the spray whine over
their heads.

"Farther west I've seen houses chained to the earth with ships'
cables," he shouted in her ear. "To think of building a harbor in a
place like this!"

"I prayed for you last night. I prayed for the wind to come," said
the girl, after a time.

O'Neil looked at her, curiously startled, then he looked out at
the sea once more. All in a moment he realized that Eliza was
beautiful and that she had a heart. It seemed wonderful that she
should be interested in his fortunes. He was a lonely man; beneath
his open friendliness lay a deep reserve. A curiously warm feeling of
gratitude flamed through him now, and he silently blessed her for
bearing him company in the deciding hour of his life.

Noon came, and still the two crouched in their half-shelter,
drenched, chilled, stiff with exposure, watching Kyak Bay lash itself
into a boiling smother. The light grew dim, night was settling; the
air seemed full of screaming furies. Then O'Neil noticed bits of
driftwood racing in upon the billows, and he rose with a loud cry.

"It's breaking up!" he shouted. "It's breaking up!"

Eliza lifted herself and clung to him, but she could see nothing
except a misty confusion. In a few moments the flotsam came thicker.
Splintered piling, huge square-hewn timbers with fragments of twisted
iron or broken bolts came floating into sight. A confusion of wreckage
began to clutter the shore, and into it the sea churned.

The spindrift tore asunder at length, and the watchers caught a
brief glimpse of the tumbling ocean. The breakwater was gone. Over
the place where it had stood the billows raced unhindered.

"Poor Trevor!" said O'Neil. "Poor Trevor! He did his best, but he
didn't know." He looked down to find Eliza crying. "What's this? I've
kept you here too long!"

"No, no! I'm just glad—so glad. Don't you understand?"

"I'll take you back. I must get ready to leave."

"Leave? Where—"

"For New York! I've made my fight, and I've won." His eyes kindled
feverishly. "I've won in spite of them all. I hold the key to a
kingdom. It's mine—mine! I hold the gateway to an empire, and those
who pass through must pay." The girl had never seen such fierce
triumph in a face. "I saw it in a dream, only it was more than a
dream." The wind snatched O'Neil's words from his lips, but he ran on:
"I saw a deserted fishing-village become a thriving city. I saw the
glaciers part to let pass a great traffic in men and merchandise. I
saw the unpeopled north grow into a land of homes, of farms, of
mining-camps, where people lived and bred children. I heard the
mountain passes echo to steam whistles and the whir of flying wheels.
It was a wonderful vision that I saw, but my eyes were true. They
called me a fool, and it took the sea and the hurricane to show them I
was right." He paused, ashamed of his outburst, and, taking the girl's
hand in his, went stumbling ahead of the storm.

Their limbs were cramped, their teeth chattered, they wallowed
through mire, and more than once they fell. Nearing Trevor's house,
they saw what the storm had done. Kyak was nearly razed. Roofs had
been ripped off, chimneys were down, glass was out. None but the most
substantial log cabins had withstood the assault, and men were busied
in various quarters trying to repair the damage.

They found Natalie beside herself with anxiety for their safety,
and an hour later Trevor came in, soaked to the skin. He was very
tired, and his face was haggard.

"Well! She went out!" he said. "I saw a million dollars swallowed
up in that sea."

They tried to comfort him, but the collapse of his work had left
him dazed.

"God! I didn't think it could blow like this—and it isn't over
yet. The town is flat."

"I'm sorry. You understand I sympathize?" said Murray; and the
engineer nodded.

"You told me it blew here, and I thought I knew what you meant,
but nothing could withstand those rollers."

"Nothing."

"You'll go East and see our people, I suppose?"

"At once."

"Tell them what you saw. They'll never understand from my reports.
They're good people. If there's anything I can do—"

O'Neil took his hand warmly.

Two days later Murray bade the girls good-by, and left, traveling
light. They remained in Kyak so that Eliza might complete her
investigations.

Of all those who suffered by the storm Curtis Gordon took his
misfortune hardest. This had been a black season for him, indeed.
Beginning with O'Neil's rivalry, everything had gone against him. He
had dropped his coal interests at Kyak in favor of the copper- mine,
because they failed to yield quick profits. Then he had learned that
the mine was valueless, and realized that it could not serve him much
longer as a means of raising funds. Still, he had trusted that by
taking a vigorous part in the railroad struggle he would be able
either to recoup his fortunes or at least to effect a compromise in
the shadow of which his fiasco at Hope would be forgotten. As yet the
truth about Hope Consolidated was not generally known to his
stock-holders, but a certain restlessness among them had become
troublesome. The stream of money had diminished alarmingly, and it was
largely because of this that he had bought the McDermott right-of-way
and moved to Kyak. And now, just as he had his affairs in shape for
another and a greater campaign of stock-flotation, the storm had come
to ruin him.

The bitterest element in his defeat was the realization that
O'Neil, who had bested him at every turn, was destined to profit by
the very blow which crushed him. Defeat at the hands of the Copper
Trust he would have accepted with a fairly good grace; but the mere
thought that Murray O'Neil, whom he considered in every way his
inferior, had gained the upper hand was intolerable. It was in keeping
with Gordon's character that instead of blaming his own judgment he
became furiously angry at the Trust for the mistake of its engineers,
and held them responsible for his desperate situation. That it was
truly desperate he very soon realized, since disaster to his railroad
project meant that his stock-holders would be around his ears like a
swarm of hornets, and once they understood the true state of affairs
at Hope the complete collapse of his fortunes would surely follow.

During the days succeeding the storm he scarcely knew where to
turn, so harassed was he; yet he never for a moment wavered in his
resolve to make O'Neil pay for his interference and to exact a
reckoning from Gloria Gerard.

Natalie's presence in Kyak confirmed his belief that O'Neil was
interested in her, and he began to plan a stroke by which he could
take revenge upon all three. It did not promise in any way to help him
out of his financial straits, but at least it would give him a certain
satisfaction.

Gordon found his erstwhile ward greatly improved by her recent
life. She was brown, vigorous, healthy; her physical charms quickened
his pulses.

"You must have a very good reason for coming to see me," she
began. "I don't flatter myself that it is from affection."

"There you wrong me," he assured her, with the warm earnestness he
so easily assumed. "I have always regarded you as a daughter."

"I have no faith in you."

"Exactly, and the knowledge distresses me. You and Gloria were a
large part of my life; I can't bear to lose you. I hope—and I
believe—that her regard for me has changed no more than mine for
her. It remains for me to regain yours."

"That is impossible. You had the chance—"

"My dear, you can't know my reasons for acting as I did at Omar.
But those reasons no longer exist."

"That isn't necessary. You know mother is only waiting for you. It
means so much to her that she couldn't refuse."

"Doesn't it mean anything to you?"

Natalie nodded. "It means more to me than to any one else,
perhaps. I have been carrying a great burden, almost more than I can
bear. Sometimes I've wished I were a man—for just long enough to make
you pay. Oh yes," she continued, as he started to protest. "Don't let
us begin this new life with any false conceptions; you may as well
know that I shall always hate you. We shall see very little of each
other."

"Nonsense! I can't let you feel like that. I sha'n't rest until I
win back your love and confidence."

She eyed him searchingly for a moment, then opened her lips to
speak, but closed them.

"Well?" he prompted her. "Let us be frank with each other."

"I'm merely wondering how greatly your decision has been
influenced by the storm and the fight at the railroad crossing. I
understand how you feel toward Mr. O'Neil, and I know that he means
to crush you."

"Oh!" Gordon's face lighted.

"Yes! He has never said so, but I can feel it. I wonder if you
have snatched us up in your extremity as a defense."

"Ridiculous! Your suspicions are insulting. I have nothing to fear
from him, for he is broken, his credit is gone, he is in desperate
straits."

"Are you in any better condition? How long can you fool your
people with that pretense of a mine?"

Gordon flushed, but affected scorn. "So! Have you and Gloria begun
to balance my wealth against my love? If so—"

"You know she would marry you if you were penniless."

"I hope so—and, indeed, I can't believe her mercenary. Well, I
shall say good-by to Kyak, without idle regret, and we three shall
return to Hope, where I can attack my problems with fresh courage. I
can well afford my loss here, if by doing so I gain the woman of my
desires."

"You want me to go with you?"

"Of course. You can't stay in Omar, knowing what you do about
O'Neil. Remember, I shall be in the position of a father to you."

"Very well. It is the least I can do. Miss Appleton and I are
returning to Omar in a few days. Will you go with us?"

"I shall be delighted, my dear." He smiled upon her in his most
fatherly fashion, but she was far from feeling the assurance he meant
to convey.

The eighteen-hour train from Chicago bore Murray O'Neil into New
York on time, and he hastened directly to the Holland House, where
the clerk greeted him as if he had run in from Yonkers instead of from
the wilderness of the far northwest. His arrival was always the
forerunner of great prosperity for the bell-boys, and there was the
customary struggle for his baggage.

An hour later, having bathed and changed his linen, he was
whizzing toward lower Broadway, with the roar of the Subway in his
ears. New York looked very good to O'Neil, for this time he came not
as a suppliant, but as a conqueror, and a deep contentment rested in
his heart. More than once during the last two years he had made this
flying trip across an ocean and a continent, but heretofore he had
been burdened with worries and responsibilities. Always he had needed
to gather his wits for some supreme effort; always there had been the
urgent necessity of raising money. As the S. R. N. had grown his
obligations had increased; and, while he had never returned
empty-handed, no one but he knew at what cost of time and strength he
had succeeded in financing his venture. Invariably he had left New
York mentally and physically exhausted, and his days in the open had
barely served to replenish his store of nervous energy for the next
campaign.

As he looked back upon it all he was amazed at his daring in
attempting to finance a railroad out of his own pocket. But he had
won, and the Trust had met with a sharp reverse in attempting to beat
him at his own game. He held the winning card, and he looked out upon
the world through eyes which were strained and weary, but complacent.

Mr. Herman Heidlemann was expecting him.

"You have the most confident way of arranging appointments from
the other side of the world," he began, as O'Neil entered his office.
"Steamships and railroads appear to be your obedient servants."

"Not always. I find railroads very troublesome at times."

"Well, you're on time to the minute," said Heidlemann. "Now tell
me about Kyak. Trevor cables that you were there during the storm
which ruined us." The head of the copper syndicate did not look like
a man facing ruin; in fact, he seemed more curious to hear of the
physical phenomena of that hurricane than of its effect upon his
fortunes.

"Kyak was a great mistake," he admitted, when O'Neil had given him
the particulars he asked for. "We're all agreed on that point. Some of
our associates feel that the whole Alaskan enterprise has been a
mistake—mines and all."

"Your mines are as good as they ever were, but Kyak is a long way
from Wall Street, and you relied too much upon other people's
judgment."

"We have to rely upon our experts."

"Of course. But that country must have a railroad."

"Must?" Heidlemann lifted his brows. "It has done very well
without one so far. Our friends call us crazy for trying to build
one, and our enemies call us thieves."

"You can't afford to give up."

"No. There's an element of pride in the matter, and I really
believe the country does need transportation."

"You can't understand how badly it needs it."

"Yet it's a heavy load to carry," said Heidlemann, with
conviction, "for a road will lose money for many years. We were
willing to wait until the agriculture and the mining developed, even
though the profit came only to our children; but—we have been
misunderstood, abused by the press and the public. Even Congress is
down on us. However, I suppose you came to tell me once more that Omar
is the gateway and that we need it."

O'Neil smiled. "That's hardly necessary now, is it? I own every
inch of water-front at that point, and there's no other harbor. My
track will be laid to the glaciers by the time snow flies."

"Trevor reports that a bridge is possible, although expensive."

"It will cost two million dollars."

"I don't see how it can be built to withstand the ice."

"I'll guarantee to build it so it will hold."

"What is your proposition?" asked Heidlemann.

"I'll sell the S.R.for five million dollars and contract to
complete the road within two years on a ten-per-cent commission."

"It has cost you about three million dollars, I believe. That
would leave you a handsome profit."

"One million for me, one million for my associates."

"What will the remaining hundred miles cost?"

"About ten millions. That will give me another million profit as
contractor. My force and equipment is on the ground. I can save you
money and a year's time."

Mr. Heidlemann drummed upon the top of his desk for a moment.

"You're a high-priced man, O'Neil," he said, finally.

"You've had experience with the other kind."

"Counting the money we've already sunk, the road would stand us
about twenty million dollars completed."

"It will cost thirty to build from Cortez, and take two years
longer."

Mr. Heidlemann seemed to consider this for a moment. "We've had
this matter before us almost constantly since the report of the
storm," he said, at length, "and after deliberation our directors
have voted to do nothing just yet."

O'Neil opened his eyes in amazement.

"I don't understand."

"It's this way. Our engineers first recommended Cortez as a
starting-point, and we spent a fortune there. Then you attacked the
other route, and we sent Trevor up to find if you were right and we
were wrong. He recommended the Salmon River valley, and told us he
could build a breakwater at Kyak. You know the result. We relied upon
him, for he seemed to be the best man in the country, but as a matter
of precaution we later sent other engineers. Their reports came in not
three months ago, and, while all seemed confident that the breakwater
could be built, none of them were certain about the bridge. One, in
fact, condemned it absolutely. Now on the heels of their statements
comes the news that the very work they united in declaring feasible
has been undone. Naturally, we don't know where we are or whom to
believe."

"They simply didn't know the conditions at Kyak," argued O'Neil,
"and they evidently haven't studied the bridge as I have. But you'll
have to go at the breakwater again or build in from Cortez or give
up."

"No, we have decided to mark time until that crossing is proved
feasible. Understand, I voice the sentiment of the majority."

"If I build that bridge you may find it more difficult to buy me
out," said O'Neil, quietly.

"We'll have to take our medicine," Mr. Heidlemann replied, without
heat. "We cannot afford another mistake."

"This is definite?"

"Oh, absolutely! We're going slow for a time."

A blow in the face could not have affected O'Neil more
disagreeably than this statement. Fortune had seemed within his grasp
when he entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than it had ever
been before. The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath his feet;
he discovered that he was dizzy. He felt himself utterly incapable of
raising the two million dollars necessary to carry his road to a point
where the Trust would consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss
of all he had put in. He knew also that these men would never recede
from a position once taken.

"Hasn't this public clamor had something to do with your
determination?" he asked.

"A great deal. We had the best intentions when we started—we
still have—but it's time to let the general sentiment cool. We
thought we were doing a fine thing for the country in opening Alaska,
but it seems we're regarded as thieves and grafters. One gets tired of
abuse after a while."

"Will you take an option on the S. R. can't help you, O'Neil, but
rest assured we won't do anything to hinder you. You have treated us
fairly; we will reciprocate. Once you have built your bridge we can
discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original enterprise, but
meanwhile we must proceed cautiously. It is unfortunate for us all."

"Especially for me."

"You need money badly, don't you?"

"I'm worse than broke," O'Neil admitted.

"I'd really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise,"
Heidlemann said, earnestly, "for you have made a good fight, and your
ideas were better than ours. I'd much prefer to pay your price than to
profit by your misfortune. Needless to say we don't feel that way
about Gordon."

"There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the
money. With your means I could build a road to the moon, and
double-track it."

Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he continued
to argue the matter from various angles, hoping against hope to sway
Heidlemann's decision. But he gave up at last. Out in the marble hall
which led to the elevators he discovered that all his vigor of an hour
ago had passed. The spring was out of his limbs; he walked slowly,
like an old man. A glimpse of his image in the mirrors of the car as
he shot downward showed him a face grave and haggard. The crowds
jostled him, but he was hardly conscious of them. The knowledge that
his hardest fight was yet to come filled him with sickening
apprehension. He was like a runner who toes the mark for a final heat
knowing himself to be upon the verge of collapse.

The magnitude of the deal narrowed his field of operations
alarmingly, and he had already learned what a serious effect upon
capital the agitation about Alaska had produced. More than once he
had found men who were willing to invest but feared the effect of
public sentiment. Popular magazines, newspapers like The Review, and
writers like Eliza Appleton had been largely to blame for the wrong.
They had misunderstood the problem and misinterpreted the spirit of
commercial progress. But, strangely enough, he felt no bitterness at
thought of Eliza. On the contrary, his heart softened in a sort of
friendly yearning for her company. He would have liked to talk the
matter over with her.

Looking the situation squarely in the face, he realized that he
must face a crash or raise two million dollars within the next month.
That meant seventy thousand dollars a day. It was a man- sized task.

He bought himself a cigar at the corner, hailed a taxicab, and was
driven all the way up town to the Holland House. Once there, he
established himself in that corner of the men's cafe which he always
frequented.

The waiter who served him lingered to say:

"It's good to see you back in your 'office' again. You've been a
long time away, sir."

O'Neil had the faculty of sleeping well, in spite of the most
tormenting worries. He arose on the morning after his interview with
Mr. Heidlemann, ready to begin the struggle with all his normal energy
and confidence. But the day brought him only discouragement. He had a
large acquaintance, the mention of his name in quarters where he was
not personally known gained him respectful attention; but he found
himself working in the shadow of the Copper Trust, and its silent
influence overcame his strongest arguments. One banker expressed the
general attitude by saying:

"If the Heidlemanns were not in the field we might help you, but
it would be financial suicide to oppose them."

At this his hearer very naturally wished to know why, if the
bridge were indeed feasible, the Heidlemanns delayed action; and
O'Neil had to fall back upon a recital of the facts, realizing
perfectly that they failed to carry conviction.

No one, it seemed, cared to risk even a semblance of rivalry with
that monstrous aggregation of capital, for the interlacing of
financial interests was amazingly intricate, and financiers were
fearful of the least misstep. Everywhere O'Neil encountered the same
disheartening timidity. His battle, it seemed, had been lost before it
was begun.

Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O'Neil in his
corner of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way out
of his perplexities. Usually he was surrounded by friends, for he
continued to entertain in the lavish fashion for which he had gained a
reputation; but sometimes he was alone, and then his solitude became
more oppressive than it had ever been even in the farthest wastes of
the northland. He was made to feel his responsibility with dreadful
keenness, for his associates were in a panic and bombarded him with
daily inquiries, vexatious and hard to answer. He had hoped that in
this extremity they might give him some practical help, and they did
make a few half- hearted attempts, only to meet the same
discouragements as he. At last they left him to carry the burden
alone.

A week, two weeks went by. He was in constant cable communication
with Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire straits
in which his chief was struggling. Work on the S. R. N. was going
forward as usual. The organization was running at its highest
efficiency: rails were being laid; gangs of rock-workers were
preparing the grade beyond the glaciers. Yet every day that passed,
every pay-check drawn brought ruin closer. Nevertheless, O'Neil
continued to joke and chat with the men who came to his table in the
cafe and kept his business appointments with his customary
cheerfulness. The waiters who attended him rejoiced in his usual
princely tips.

One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a
woman's handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started. It was
signed "Gloria Gordon." Briefly it apprised him of her marriage and of
her and Natalie's return to Hope. Gloria thanked him perfunctorily for
his many kindnesses, but she neither expressed nor implied an
invitation for him to visit them. He smiled a little grimly—already
her loyalty had veered to Gordon's side, and Natalie no doubt shared
her feeling. Well, it was but natural, perhaps. It would be
unreasonable to expect them to sacrifice their desires, and what they
now seemed to consider their interests, to a business quarrel they
could hardly be expected to understand. He could not help feeling hurt
that the women should so readily exchange his friendship for the
protection of his bitterest enemy, but—they were helpless and he had
helped them; let it rest at that. He was really troubled, however,
that they had been so easily deceived. If they had only waited! If he
had only been able to advise them! For Gordon's intention was plain.
He was aroused from his train of thought by a stranger whom he found
standing beside his table and looking down at him with wavering eye.

Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely. He showed evidences of a
protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling hand
which he extended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his good- natured face
was purple.

O'Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself
enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if
some one had tripped him.

"Been washing you for ten minutes."

"Washing me?"

"No! WASHING you. Couldn't make you out—eyesight's getting bad.
Too many bright lights in this town. Ha! Joke! Let's have a gill."

"Thank you, no."

"Must have a little dram for old time's sake. You're the only one
of the North Pass crowd I'll drink with." Mr. Bulker gestured
comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded. "You were
my friend, O'Neil; you always treated me right."

"What are you doing now?" asked O'Neil, with the interest he could
not refuse to any one who had ever worked with him. He remembered the
fellow perfectly. He had come on from the East as auditor, and had
appeared to be capable, although somewhat given to drink.

"I'm a broker. Wall Street's my habitat. Fine time to buy stocks,
Misser O'Neil." Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom. "Like
to have a tip? No? Good! You're a wise man. They fired me from the
North Pass. Wha'd you know about that? Fired me for drinking! Greatest
injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running, like a turkey. That
wasn't the reason they let me go, though. Not on your life!" He winked
portentously, and strangely enough his eyelid failed to resume its
normal position. It continued to droop, giving the appearance of a
waggish leer. "I knew too mush! Isn't healthy to know too mush, is
it?"

"I've never had a chance to find out," smiled Murray.

"Oh, don't be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the
job. I'll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got pickled.
Say! Who d'you s'pose I saw to-day? Old man Illis!"

O'Neil became suddenly intent. He had been trying to get in touch
with Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to
London had brought no response.

"When did he arrive?"

"Just lately. He's a game old rooster, ain't he? Gee, he's sore!"

"Sore about what?"

Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.

"About that North Pass deal, of course. He was blackmailed out of
a cold million. The agreement's about up now, and I figure he's over
here to renew it."

"You're talking Greek," said O'Neil; but his eagerness was
manifest.

"I s'posed you knew. The North Pass has been paying blackmail to
the Yukon steamboat companies for three years. When you built the
line it practically put 'em out of the Dawson market, understand?"

"Of course."

Now that Mr. Bulker's mind was running along well-worn grooves,
his intoxication became less apparent.

"Those Frisco steamboat men got together and started a rate war
against the railroad; they hauled freight to Dawson by way of St.
Michaels at a loss. Of course Illis and his crowd had to meet
competition, and it nearly broke 'em the first two seasons. Gee, they
were the mad ones! Finally they fixed up an agreement—had to or go
bust—and of course the Native Sons put it over our English cousins.
They agreed to restore the old rate, and each side promised to pay the
other a royalty of ten dollars a ton on all the freight it hauled to
Dawson and up-river points. You can guess the result, can't you? The
steamboat companies let Illis haul all the freight and sat back on
their haunches and took their profit. For every ton he hauled he
slipped 'em ten round American dollars, stamped with the Goddess of
Liberty. Oh, it was soft! When they had him fairly tied up they
dry-docked their steamboats, to save wear and tear. He paid 'em a
thousand dollars a day for three years. If that ain't blackmail, it's
a first cousin to it by marriage."

"Didn't the Interstate Commerce Commission get wise?"

"Certainly not. It looks wise, but it never GETS wise. Oh, believe
me, Poultney Illis is hopping mad. I s'pose he's over here now to
renew the arrangement for another three years on behalf of his
stock-holders. Let's have a dram." Bulker sat back and stared as
through a mist at his companion, enjoying the effect of his
disclosure.

O'Neil was indeed impressed—more deeply than his informant
dreamed. Out of the lips of a drunken man had come a hint which set
his nerves to tingling. He knew Illis well, he knew the caliber of the
Englishman, and a plan was already leaping in his brain whereby he
might save the S. R. N.

It lacked an hour of midnight when O'Neil escaped from Bulker and
reached his room. Once inside, he seized the telephone and rang up
hotel after hotel, inquiring for the English capitalist, but without
result. After a moment's consideration he took his hat and gloves and
went out. The matter did not permit of delay. Not only were his own
needs imperative, but if Poultney Illis had come from London to confer
with his rivals there was little time to spare.

Remembering the Englishman's habits, O'Neil turned up the Avenue
to the Waldorf, where he asked for the manager, whom he well knew.

"Yes, Mr. Illis is here," he was informed, "but he's registered
under a different name. No doubt he'll be glad to see you, however."

A moment later Murray recognized the voice of Illis's valet over
the wire and greeted him by name. Another brief delay, and the
capitalist himself was at the 'phone.

"Come right up," he said; and O'Neil replaced the receiver with a
sigh of relief.

Illis greeted him warmly, for their relations had been close.

"Lucky you found me," he said. "I'm going back on the next
sailing."

"Have you signed up with the Arctic Navigation Company?" Murray
inquired; and the other started.

"Bless me! What do you mean?"

His caller laughed. "I see you haven't. I don't think you will,
either, after you've talked with me."

Without the tremor of an eyelash Illis exclaimed:

"My word! What are you driving at?"

"That agreement over freight rates, of course."

The Briton eyed him for a moment, then carefully closed the door
leading from his sitting-room, and, seating himself, lit a cigar.

"What do you know about that matter?" he asked, quietly.

"About all there is to know—enough, at least, to appreciate your
feelings."

"I flattered myself that my affairs were private. Where did you
get your information?"

"I'll tell you if you insist, although I'd rather not. There's no
danger of its becoming public."

Illis showed his relief. "I'm glad. You gave me a start. Rotten
fix for a man to be in. Why, I'm here under an assumed name! Fancy!
But—" he waved his hand in a gesture which showed his acceptance of
the inevitable.

"You haven't made your new agreement?"

"I'm to meet Blum and Capron to-morrow."

"Why didn't you take the S. R.N. when I cabled you last month?"

"I couldn't. But what has that to do with the matter?"

"Don't you see? It's so plain to me that I can't understand how
you failed to realize the value—the necessity of buying my road."

"Explain, please."

"Gladly. The North Pass Yukon is paying a fabulous blackmail to
the river-lines to escape a ruinous rate war."

"Right! It's blackmail, as you say." "Under the present agreement
you handle the Dawson freight and keep out of the lower river; they
take the whole Tanana valley and lower Yukon."

"Correct."

"Didn't it occur to you that the S.R.N., which starts four hundred
miles west of the North Pass and taps the Tanana valley, can be used
to put the river steamers of that section out of business?"

"Let's have a look at the map." Mr. Illis hurried into an
adjoining room and returned with a huge chart which he unrolled upon
the table. "To tell you the truth, I never looked at the proposition
from that angle. Our people were afraid of those glaciers and the
competition of the Copper Trust. They're disgusted, too, with our
treatment."

"The Trust is eliminated. Kyak harbor is wiped off the map, and
I'm alone in the field."

"How about this fellow Gordon?"

"He'll be broke in a year. Incidentally, that's my trouble."

"But I'm told you can't pass the glaciers."

"I can. Parker says he'll have the bridge done by spring."

"Then I'd bank on it. I'd believe Parker if I knew he was lying.
If you both agree, I haven't the slightest doubt."

"This is a bigger proposition than the North Pass, Mr. Illis. You
made money out of that road, but this one will make more." He swiftly
outlined the condition of affairs, even to the attitude assumed by the
Heidlemanns; and Illis, knowing the speaker as he did, had no doubt
that he was hearing the exact truth. "But that's not all," continued
O'Neil. "The S. R. N. is the club which will hammer your enemies into
line. That's what I came to see you about. With a voice in it you can
control the traffic of all central Alaska and force the San Francisco
crowd to treat the N. P. Y. fairly, thereby saving half a million a
year."

"It's a big undertaking. I'm not sure our crowd could swing it."

"They don't have to. There's a quick profit of two million to be
had by selling to the Trust next spring. You can dictate your own
terms to those blackmailers to-morrow, and then make a turn-over in
nine months. It doesn't matter who owns the S. R. N. after it's
completed. The steamboat men will see their profits cut. As it is now,
they can make enough out of their own territory to haul freight into
yours for nothing."

"I dare say you'll go to them if we don't take you up, eh?"

"My road has its strategic value. I must have help. If you don't
come to my rescue it will mean war with your line, I dare say."

Mr. Illis sat back, staring at the ceiling for a long time. From
the street below came the whir and clatter of taxicabs as the
midnight crowd came and went. The city's nocturnal life was at its
height; men had put aside the worries of the day and were devoting
themselves to the more serious and exhausting pastimes of relaxation.
Still the white-haired Briton weighed in his mind the matter of
millions, while the fortunes of Murray O'Neil hung in the balance.

"I can't delay action if there's a chance of a refusal. I'll have
to see Blum and Capron," said O'Neil."

"I'll cable full details within the hour. We'll have an answer by
to-morrow night."

"And if they refuse?" O'Neil lit a cigar with steady fingers.

"Oh, if they refuse I'll join you. We'll go over the matter
carefully in the mean time. Two million you said, didn't you?"

"Yes. There's two million profit for you in nine months." His
voice was husky and a bit uneven, for he had been under a great
strain.

"Good! You don't know how resentful I feel toward Blum and his
crowd. I—I'm downright angry: I am that."

Illis took the hand which his caller extended, with an
expressionless face.

"I'm glad I found you," confessed O'Neil. "I was on my last legs.
Herman Heidlemann will pay our price when the last bridge-bolt is
driven home, and he'll pay with a smile on his face—that's the sort
of man he is."

"He won't pay if he knows I'm interested. We're not exactly
friendly since I sold out my smelter interests. But he needn't
know—nobody need know."

Illis called his valet and instructed him to rouse his secretary
and ring for some cable blanks.

"I think I'll cable, too," Murray told him. "I have some 'boys' up
there who are working in the dark with their teeth shut. They're
waiting for the crash, and they'd like to hear the good news."

His fingers shook as he scrawled the name of Doctor Gray, but his
eyes were bright and youth was singing in his heart once more.

"Now let's get down to business," said Mr. Illis. "We'll have to
talk fast."

It was growing light in the east when O'Neil returned to the
Holland House; but he felt no fatigue, and he laughed from the pure
joy of living, for his dream seemed coming true.

Tom Slater came puffing up the hill to the Appleton bungalow,
plumped himself into a chair, and sighed deeply.

"What's the matter? Are you played out?" asked Eliza.

"No. I'm feeling like a colt."

"Any news from Omar Khayyam?"

"Not a word."

Eliza's brows drew together in a worried frown, for none of
Murray's "boys" had awaited tidings from him with greater anxiety
than she.

It had been a trying month for them all. Dr. Gray, upon whom the
heaviest responsibility rested, had aged visibly under the strain;
Parker and Mellen and McKay had likewise become worn and grave as the
days passed and they saw disaster approaching. Even Dan was blue; and
Sheldon, the light-hearted, had begun to lose interest in his
commissary duties.

After the storm at Kyak there had been a period of fierce
rejoicing, which had ended abruptly with the receipt of O'Neil's curt
cablegram announcing the attitude of the Trust. Gloom had succeeded
the first surprise, deepening to hopeless despondency through the days
that followed. Oddly enough, Slater had been the only one to bear up;
under adversity he blossomed into a peculiar and almost offensive
cheerfulness. It was characteristic of his crooked temperament that
misfortune awoke in him a lofty and unshakable optimism.

"You're great on nicknames, ain't you?" he said to Eliza,
regarding her with his never-failing curiosity. "Who's this Homer
Keim you're always talking about?"

"He isn't any more: he WAS. He was a cheerful old Persian poet."

"I thought he was Dutch, from the name. Well! Murray's cheerful
too. Him and me are alike in that. I'll bet he isn't worrying half so
much as Doc and the others."

"You think he'll make good?" "He never fails."

"But—we can't hold on much longer. Dan says that some of the men
are getting uneasy and want their money."

Tom nodded. "The men are all right—Doc has kept them paid up;
it's the shift bosses. I say let 'em quit."

"Has it gone as far as that?"

"Somebody keeps spreading the story that we're busted and that
Murray has skipped out. More of Gordon's work, I s'pose. Some of the
sore-heads are coming in this evening to demand their wages."

"Can we pay them?"

"Doc says he dassent; so I s'pose they'll quit. He should have
fired 'em a week ago. Never let a man quit—always beat him to it. We
could hold the rough-necks for another two weeks if it wasn't for
these fellows, but they'll go back and start a stampede."

"How many are there?"

"About a dozen."

"I was afraid it was worse. There can't be much owing to them."

"Oh, it's bad enough! They've been letting their wages ride,
that's why they got scared. We owe them about four thousand dollars."

"They must be paid," said Eliza. "It will give Mr. O'Neil another
two weeks—a month, perhaps."

"Doc's got his back up, and he's told the cashier to make 'em
wait."

Eliza hesitated, and flushed a little. "I suppose it's none of my
business," she said, "but—couldn't you boys pay them out of your own
salaries?"

"Salary! We ain't had any salary," he said, cheerfully—"not for
months."

"Dan has drawn his regularly."

"Oh, sure! But he ain't one of us. He's an outsider."

"I see!" Eliza's eyes were bright with a wistful admiration.
"That's very nice of you men. You have a family, haven't you, Uncle
Tom?"

"I have! Seven head, and they eat like a herd of stock. It looks
like a lean winter for 'em if Murray don't make a sale—but he will.
That isn't what I came to see you about; I've got my asking clothes
on, and I want a favor."

"You shall have it, of course."

"I want a certificate."

"Of what?"

"Ill health. Nobody believes I had the smallpox."

"You didn't."

"Wh-what?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He stared at the girl in hurt
surprise.

"It was nothing but pimples, Tom."

"Pimples!" He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks
grew purple. "I—I s'pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and
backache and palpitation and swellings! Hunh! I had a narrow
escape—narrow's the word. It was narrower than a knife-edge!
Anything I get out of life from now on is 'velvet,' for I was
knocking at death's door. The grave yawned, but I jumped it. It's the
first sick spell I ever had, and I won't be cheated out of it.
Understand?"

"What do you want me to do?" smiled the girl.

"You're a writer: write me an affidavit—"

"I can't do that."

"Then put it in your paper. Put it on the front page, where folks
can see it."

"I've quit The Review. I'm doing magazine stories."

"Well, that'll do. I'm not particular where it's printed so long
as—"

Eliza shook her head. "You weren't really sick, Uncle Tom."

At this Mr. Slater rose to his feet in high dudgeon.

"Don't call me 'Uncle,'" he exclaimed. "You're in with the
others."

"It wouldn't be published if I wrote it."

"Then you can't be much of a writer." He glared at her, and
slowly, distinctly, with all the emphasis at his command, said: "I
had smallpox—and a dam' bad case, understand? I was sick. I had
miseries in every joint and cartage of my body. I'm going to use a
pick-handle for a cane, and anybody that laughs will get a hickory
massage that'll take a crooked needle and a pair of pinchers to fix.
Thank God I've got my strength back! You get me?"

Eliza considered for a moment. "Don't let them see Dr. Gray," she
said, at length. "He has enough to worry him. Meet them at the train
and bring them here."

"What for? Tea?"

"You boys have done all you can; I think it's time Dan and I did
something."

Tom stared. "Are YOU going to pay 'em?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yes. Mr. O'Neil needs time. Dan and I have saved four thousand
dollars. I'd offer it to Dr. Gray—"

"He wouldn't take it."

"Exactly. Send Dan up here when you see him."

"It doesn't seem exactly right." Tom was obviously embarrassed.
"You see, we sort of belong to Murray, and you don't, but—" He shook
his head as if to rid himself of unwelcome emotion. "Women are funny
things! You're willing to do that for the chief, and yet you won't
write me a little affidavit!" He grunted and went away, still shaking
his head.

When Eliza explained her plan to Dan she encountered an opposition
that shocked and hurt her.

"I won't do it!" he said, shortly.

"You—WHAT?"

"We can't build the S. R.

"Yes, and made you love him, too," said Dan, roughly. "I can see
that."

Eliza lifted her head and met his eyes squarely.

"That's true! But why not? Can't I love him? Isn't it my privilege
to help him if I want to? If I had two million dollars instead of two
thousand I'd give it to him, and—and I wouldn't expect him to care
for me, either. He'll never do that. He couldn't! But—oh, Danny, I've
been miserable—"

Dan felt a certain dryness of the throat which made speech oddly
difficult. "I don't see why he couldn't care for you," he said,
lamely.

Eliza shook her head hopelessly. "I'm glad it happened," she
said—"glad. In writing these articles I've tried to make him
understood; I've tried to put my whole soul into them so that the
people will see that he isn't, wouldn't be, a thief nor a grafter.
I've described him as he is—big, honorable, gentle—"

"I didn't know you were writing fiction," said her brother,
impatiently.

"I'm not. It's all true. I've cried over those articles, Dan. I've
petted them, and I've kissed his name—oh, I've been silly!" She
smiled at him through a sudden glimmer of tears.

Dan began to wonder if his sister, in spite of her exemplary
conduct in the past, were after all going to have hysterics. Women
were especially likely to, he reflected, when they demanded the
impossible. At last he said, uncomfortably: "Gee, I thought I was the
dippy member of the family!"

"It's our chance to help him," she urged. "Will you—?"

"No! I'm sorry, Sis, but my little bit wouldn't mean anything to
him; it means everything to me. Maybe that's selfish—I don't care.
I'm as mad over Natalie as you seem to be over him. A week's delay
can't make any difference now—he played and lost. But I can't afford
to lose. He'll make another fortune, that's sure—but do you think
I'll ever find another Natalie? No! Don't argue, for I won't listen."

He left the house abruptly, and Eliza went into the white bedroom
which O'Neil had fitted up for her. From the remotest corner of her
lowest bureau drawer she drew a battered tin box, and, dividing the
money it contained into two equal parts, placed one in the pockets of
her mannish jacket.

It was dark when Tom Slater arrived, at the head of a group of
soiled workmen whom he ushered into the parlor of the bungalow.

"Here's the bunch!" he announced, laconically.

As the new-comers ranged themselves uncomfortably about the wall
Dan Appleton entered and greeted them with his customary breeziness.

"The pay-master is busy, and Doc Gray has a surgical case," he
said, "so I'll cash your time-checks. Get me the box, will you, Sis?"

He had avoided Eliza's eyes upon entering, and he avoided them
now, but the girl's throat was aching as she hurried into her bedroom
and hastily replaced the rolls of greenbacks she had removed from the
tin box.

"He's in the States buying a steamship," answered Dan,
unblushingly. "We can't get stuff fast enough by the regular boats."

"Good! That sounds like business. We don't want to quit."

"Now hurry! Your parlor-car is waiting."

When he and Eliza were alone he turned to her with a flush of
embarrassment. "Aren't we the darnedest fools, Sis? I wouldn't mind
if we had done the chief any good, but we haven't." He closed the lid
of the tin box, which was nearly empty now, and pushed it away from
him, laughing mirthlessly. "Hide that sarcophagus where I can't see
it," he commanded. "It makes me sick."

Eliza flung her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against his.
"Poor Danny! You're a brick!"

"It's the bread-line for us," he told her.

"Never mind. We're used to it now." She laughed contentedly and
snuggled her face closer to his.

It was on the following morning that O'Neil's cablegram announcing
the result of his interview with Illis reached Omar. Dr. Gray brought
the news to the Appleton bungalow while Dan and his sister were still
at breakfast. "Happy Tom" came puffing and blowing at his heels with a
highly satisfied I-told-you-so expression on his round features.

"He made it! The tide has turned," cried the doctor as he burst in
waving the message on high. "Yes!" he explained, in answer to their
excited questions. "Murray got the money and our troubles are over.
Now give me some coffee, Eliza. I'm all shaky."

"English money!" commented Slater. "The same as we used on the
North Pass."

"Then he interested Illis!" cried Dan.

"Yep! He's the white-winged messenger of hope. I wasn't worried
for a minute," Tom averred.

The breakfast which followed was of a somewhat hysterical and
fragmentary nature, for Eliza felt her heart swelling, and the
faithful Gray was all but undone by the strain he had endured.
"That's the first food I've tasted for weeks," he confessed. "I've
eaten, but I haven't tasted; and now—I'm not hungry." He sighed,
stretched his long limbs gratefully, and eyed the Appletons with a
kindly twinkle. "You were up in the air, too, weren't you? The chief
will appreciate last night's affair."

Eliza colored faintly. "It was nothing. Please don't tell him." At
the incredulous lift of his brows she hastened to explain: "Tom said
you men 'belonged' to Mr. O'Neil and Dan was an outsider. That hurt me
dreadfully."

"Well, he can't say that now; Dan is one of Murray's boys, all
right, and you—you must be his girl."

At that moment Mellen and McKay burst into the bungalow, demanding
the truth behind the rumor which had just come to their ears; and
there followed fresh explanations and rejoicings, through which Eliza
sat quietly, thrilled by the note of genuine affection and loyalty
that pervaded it all. But, now that the general despondency had
vanished and joy reigned in its place, Tom Slater relapsed into his
habitual gloom and spoke forebodingly of the difficulties yet to be
encountered.

"Murray don't say how MUCH he's raised," he remarked. "It may be
only a drop in the bucket. We'll have to go through all this again,
probably, and the next time he won't find it so easy to sting a
millionaire."

"We'll last through the winter anyhow—"

"Winter!" Slater shook his bald head. "Winter is hard on old men
like me."

"We'll have the bridge built by spring, sure!" Mellen declared.

"Maybe! I hope so. I wish I could last to see it, but the smallpox
undermined me. Perhaps it's a mercy I'm so far gone; nobody knows yet
whether the bridge will stand, and—I'd hate to see it go out."

"It won't go out," said the engineer, confidently.

"Maybe you're right. But that's what Trevor said about his
breakwater. His work was done, and ours isn't hardly begun. By the
way, Murray didn't say he HAD the money; he just said he expected to
get it."

"Go out and hang your crepe on the roundhouse," Dan told him;
"this is a jubilee. If you keep on rejoicing you'll have us all in
tears." When the others had gone he turned to Eliza. "Why don't you
want O'Neil to know about that money, Sis?" he asked, curiously. "When
I'm a hero I like to be billed as one."

"Please!" She hesitated and turned her face away. "You—you are so
stupid about some things."

On the afternoon of this very day Curtis Gordon found Natalie at a
window staring out across the sound in the direction of Omar. He laid
a warm hand upon her shoulder and said:

"My dear, confess! You are lonesome."

She nodded silently.

"Well, well! We mustn't allow that. Why don't you run over to Omar
and see your friend Miss Appleton? She has a cheerful way with her."
"I'm afraid things aren't very gay over there," said Natalie,
doubtfully.

"Quite probably. But the fact that O'Neil is on his last legs
needn't interfere with your pleasure. A change will do you good."

"You are very kind," she murmured. "You have done everything to
make me happy, but—it's autumn. Winter is coming. I feel dull and
lonely and gray, like the sky. Are you sure Mr. O'Neil has failed?"

"Certainly. He tried to sell his holdings to the Trust, but they
refused to consider it. Poor fellow!" he continued, unctuously. "Now
that he's down I pity him. One can't dislike a person who has lost the
power of working harm. His men are quitting: I doubt if he'll dare
show his face in this country again. But never mind all that. There's
a boat leaving for Omar in the morning. Go; have a good time, return
when you will, and tell us how they bear up under their adversity." He
patted her shoulder affectionately and went up to his room.

It was true enough that Natalie had been unhappy since returning
to Hope—not even her mother dreamed how she rebelled at remaining
here. She was lonely, uninterested, vaguely homesick. She missed the
intimate companionship of Eliza; she missed Dan's extravagant courting
and O'Neil's grave, respectful attentions. She also felt the loss of
the honest good-fellowship of all those people at Omar whom she had
learned to like and to admire. Life here was colorless, and was still
haunted by the shadow of that thing from which she and her mother had
fled.

Gordon, indeed, had been generous to them both. Since his marriage
his attitude had changed entirely. He was polite, agreeable,
charmingly devoted: no ship arrived without some tangible and
expensive evidence of his often-expressed desire to make his wife and
stepdaughter happy; he anticipated their slightest wish. Under his
assiduous attentions Natalie's distrust and dislike had slowly melted,
and she came to believe that she had misjudged him. There were times
when he seemed to be overdoing the matter a bit, times when she
wondered if his courtesy could be altogether disinterested; but these
occasions were rare, and always she scornfully accused herself of
disloyalty. As for Gloria, she was deeply contented—as nearly happy,
in fact, as a woman of her temperament could be, and in this the
daughter took her reward.

Natalie arrived at Omar in time to see the full effect of the good
news from New York, and joined sincerely in the general rejoicing. She
returned after a few days, bursting with the tidings of O'Neil's
victory.

Gordon listened to her with keenest attention; he drew her out
artfully, and when he knew what he had sent her to learn he gave
voice to his unwelcome surprise.

"Jove!" he snarled. "That beggar hoodwinked the Heidlemanns, after
all. It's their money. What fools! What fools!"

Natalie looked up quickly.

"Does it affect your plans?" she asked.

"Yes—in a way. It consolidates my enemies."

"You said you no longer had any ill feeling toward Mr. O'Neil."

Gordon had resumed his usual suavity. "When I say enemies," he
qualified, "of course, I mean it only in a business sense. I heard
that the Trust had withdrawn, discouraged by their losses, but, now
that they re-enter the field, I shall have to fight them. They would
have done well to consult me—to buy me off, rather than be bled by
O'Neil. They shall pay well for their mistake, but—it's incredible!
That man has the luck of the devil."

That evening he and Denny sat with their heads together until a
late hour, and when they retired Gordon had begun to whip new plans
into shape.

O'Neil's return to Omar was triumphal. All his lieutenants
gathered to meet him at the pier and the sincerity of their welcome
stirred him deeply. His arrangements with Illis had taken time; he had
been delayed at Seattle by bridge details and the placing of steel
contracts. He had worked swiftly, and with such absorption that he had
paid little heed to the rumors of Gordon's latest activities. Of the
new venture which his own success had inspired he knew only the bare
outline. He had learned enough, however, to arouse his curiosity, and
as soon as the first confusion of his arrival at the front was over he
asked for news.

"Haven't you read the papers?" inquired "Happy Tom." He had
attached himself to O'Neil at the moment of his stepping ashore, and
now followed him to headquarters, with an air of melancholy
satisfaction in mere physical nearness to his chief.

"Barely!" O'Neil confessed. "I've been working twenty hours a day
getting that steel under motion."

Dr. Gray said with conviction: "Gordon is a remarkable man. It's a
pity he's crooked."

"I think it's dam' lucky," declared Tom. "He's smarter than us,
and if he wasn't handicapped by a total lack of decency he'd beat
us."

"After the storm," explained Gray, "he moved back to Hope, and we
thought he'd made his last bow, but in some way he got the idea that
the Trust was back of us."

"So I judged from the little I read."

"Well, we didn't undeceive him, of course. His first move was an
attack through the press in the shape of a broadside against the
Heidlemanns. It fairly took our breaths. It appeared in the Cortez
Courier and all over the States, we hear—a letter of defiance to
Herman Heidlemann. It declared that the Trust was up to its old tricks
here in Alaska had gobbled the copper; had the coal tied up under
secret agreements, and was trying to get possession of all the
coast-range passes and defiles—the old story. But the man can write.
That article caused a stir."

"I saw it."

"Naturally, the Cortez people ate it up. They're sore at the Trust
for leaving their town, and at us for building Omar. Then Gordon
called a mass-meeting, and some of us went up to watch the fireworks.
I've never seen anything quite like that meeting; every man, woman,
and child in the city was there, and they hissed us when we came in.
Gordon knew what he was about, and he was in fine voice. He told them
Cortez was the logical point of entry to the interior of Alaska and
ought to have all the traffic. He fired their animosity toward the
Trust, and accused us of basely selling out to it. Then he broached a
project to build, by local subscription, a narrow-gauge electric line
from Cortez, utilizing the waterfalls for power. The idea caught on,
and went like wild-fire: the people cheered themselves hoarse, and
pledged him over a hundred thousand dollars that night. Since then
they have subscribed as much more, and the town is crazy. Work has
actually begun, and they hope to reach the first summit by Christmas."

Slater broke in: "He's a spell-binder, all right. He made me hate
the Heidlemanns and detest myself for five minutes. I wasn't even
sure I liked YOU, Murray."

"It's a wild scheme, of course," continued the doctor, "but he's
putting it over. The town council has granted him a ninety-nine- year
lease covering every street; the road-bed is started, and things are
booming. Lots have been staked all over the flats, property values are
somersaulting, everybody is out of his head, and Gordon is a god. All
he does is organize new companies. He has bought a sawmill, a wharf, a
machine shop, acres of real estate. He has started a bank and a new
hotel; he has consolidated the barber shops; and he talks about
roofing in the streets with glass and making the town a series of
arcades."

Slater half smiled—evidence of a convulsive mirth within.

"They've picked out a site for a university!" he said, bitterly.
"Cortez is going to be a seat of learning and culture. They're
planning a park and a place for an Alaskan World's Fair and a museum
and a library. I've always wondered who starts public libraries—it's
'nuts.' But I didn't s'pose more than one or two people got foolish
that way."

O'Neil drew from his pocket a newspaper five days old, which he
unfolded and opened at a full-page advertisement, headed:

CORTEZ HOME RAILWAY

"This is running in all the coast papers," he said, and read:

"OUR PLATFORM:

No promotion shares. No construction profits.

No bonds. No incompetence.

No high-salaried officials. No monopoly.

No passes or rebates. No graft.

"OF ALASKA, BY ALASKA, FOR ALASKA."

There was much more of a similar kind, written to appeal to the
quick-profit-loving public, and it was followed by a violent attack
upon the Trust and an appeal to the people of Seattle for assistance,
at one dollar per share.

Tom grew red in the face and gave his characteristic snort. "I
don't mind his stringing the City Council and the saloons, and even
the Ladies' Guild," he growled, "but when he steals the licorice and
slate-pencils from the kids it's time he was stopped."

Murray agreed. "I think we are about done with Gordon. He has led
his ace."

"I'm not sure. This is a kind of popular uprising, like a camp-
meeting. If I went to Cortez now, some prattling school-girl would
wallop me with her dinner-bucket. We can't shake Gordon loose: he's a
regular splavvus."

"What is a splavvus, Tom?" inquired Dr. Gray.

"It's a real peculiar animal, being a cross between a bulldog and
a skunk. We have lots of 'em in Maine!"

O'Neil soon found that the accounts he had received of Gordon's
last attempt to recoup his fortunes were in no way exaggerated.
Cortez, long the plaything of the railroad-builders, had been ripe
for his touch: it rose in its wounded civic pride and greeted his
appeal with frantic delight. It was quite true that the
school-children had taken stock in the enterprise: their parents
turned their own pockets inside out, and subscriptions came in a
deluge. The price of real estate doubled, quadrupled, and Gordon
bought just enough to establish the price firmly. The money he paid
was deposited again in his new bank, and he proceeded to use it over
and over in maintaining exorbitant prices and in advancing his
grandiose schemes. His business took him often to Seattle, where by
his whirlwind methods he duplicated his success in a measure: his
sensational attack upon the money powers got a wide hearing, and he
finally secured an indorsement of his scheme by the Businessmen's
Association. This done, he opened splendid offices and began a
wide-spread stock- flotation campaign. Soon the Cortez Home Railway
became known as a mighty, patriotic effort of Alaskans to throw off
the shackles of oppression.

Gordon perfectly understood that something more than vague
accusations were necessary to bring the public to his support in
sufficient numbers to sweep him on to victory, and with this in mind
he laid crafty plans to seize the Heidlemann grade. The Trust had
ceased active work on its old right-of-way and moved to Kyak, to be
sure, but it had not abandoned its original route, and in fact had
maintained a small crew at the first defile outside of Cortez, known
as Beaver Canon. Gordon reasoned shrewdly that a struggle between the
agents of the Trust and the patriotic citizens of the town would
afford him precisely the advertising he needed and give point to his
charge of unfair play against the Heidlemanns.

It was not difficult to incite his victims to this act of robbery.
On the contrary, once he had made the suggestion, he had hard work to
restrain them, until he had completed his preparations. These
preparations were simple; they consisted in writing and mailing to
every newspaper of consequence a highly colored account of the
railroad struggle. These mimeographed stories were posted from Seattle
in time for them to reach their destinations on the date set for the
seizure of the grade.

It was an ingenious publicity move, worthy of a theatrical press-
agent, and it succeeded beyond the promoter's fondest
expectations—too well, in fact, for it drove the Trust in
desperation to an alliance with the S. R. N.

The day set for the demonstration came; the citizens of Cortez
boldly marched into Beaver Canon to take possession of the old
Heidlemann workings, but it appeared that they had reckoned
prematurely. A handful of grim-faced Trust employees warned them
back: there was a rush, some rough work on the part of the
aggressors, and then the guards brought their weapons into play. The
result afforded Gordon far more sensational material than he had hoped
for: one citizen was killed and five others were badly wounded.
Cortez, dazed and horror-stricken, arose in her wrath and descended
upon the "assassins"; lynchings were planned, and mobs threatened the
local jail, until soldiers were hurried thither and martial law was
declared.

Of course, the wires were burdened with the accounts; the reading
public of the States awoke to the fact that a bitter strife was
waging in the north between honest miners and the soulless Heidlemann
syndicate. Gordon's previously written and carefully colored stories
of the clash were printed far and wide. Editorials breathed
indignation at such lawlessness and pointed to the Cortez Home Railway
as a commendable effort to destroy the Heidlemann throttle-hold upon
the northland. Stock subscriptions came in a deluge which fairly
engulfed Gordon's Seattle office force.

During this brief white-hot campaign the promoter had been
actuated as much by his senseless hatred of O'Neil as by lust of
glory and gain, and it was with no little satisfaction that he
returned to Alaska conscious of having dealt a telling blow to his
enemy. He sent Natalie to Omar on another visit in order that he might
hear at first hand how O'Neil took the matter. But his complacency
received a shock when the girl returned. He had no need to question
her.

"Uncle Curtis," she began, excitedly, "you ought to stop these
terrible newspaper stories about Mr. O'Neil and the Trust."

"Stop them? My dear, what do you mean?"

"He didn't sell out to the Trust. He has nothing to do with it."

"What?" Gordon's incredulity was a challenge.

"He sold to an Englishman named Illis. They seem to be amused by
your mistake over there at Omar, but I think some of the things
printed are positively criminal. I knew you'd want the truth—"

"The truth, yes! But this can't be true," stammered Gordon.

"It is. Mr. O'Neil did try to interest the Heidlemanns, but they
wouldn't have anything to do with him, and the S. R. N. was going to
smash when Mr. Illis came along, barely in time. It was too exiting
and dramatic for anything the way Mr. O'Neil found him when he was in
hiding—"

"Hiding?"

"Yes. There was something about blackmail, or a secret arrangement
between Mr. Illis and the Yukon River lines—I couldn't understand
just what it was—but, anyhow, Murray took advantage of it and saved
the North Pass and the S. R. N. at the same time. It was really a
perfectly wonderful stroke of genius. I determined a once that you
should stop these lies and correct the general idea that he is in the
pay of the Trust. Why, he went to Cortez last week and they threatened
his life!"

Mrs. Gordon, who had listened, said, quietly: "Don't blame Curtis
for that. That bloody affray at Beaver Canyon has made Cortez bitter
against every one connected with the Heidlemanns."

"What about this blackmail?" said her husband, upon whose ear the
word had made a welcome impression. "I don't understand what you mean
by O'Neil's 'saving' the North Pass and his own road at the same
time—nor Illis's being in hiding." Neither do I." Natalie confessed,
"but I know you have made a mistake that ought to be set right."

"Why doesn't he come out with the truth?"

"The whole thing is secret."

"Why?"

Natalie shrugged hopelessly, and Gordon lost himself in frowning
thought.

"This is amazing," he said, brusquely, after a moment. "It's
vital. It affects all my plans. I must know everything at once."

"I'm sorry I paid so little attention."

"Never mind; try it again and be diplomatic. If O'Neil won't tell
you, question Appleton—you can wind him around your fingers easily
enough."

The girl eyed him with a quick change of expression.

"Isn't it enough to know that the Trust has nothing to do with the
S. R. N.?"

"No!" he declared, impatiently. "I must know the whole inside of
this secret understanding—this blackmail, or whatever it is."

"Then—I'm sorry."

"Come! Don't be silly. You can do me a great service."

"You said you no longer disliked Mr. O'Neil and that he couldn't
harm you."

"Well, well! Must I explain the whys and wherefores of every move
I make?"

"It would be spying if I went back. The matter is confidential—I
know that."

"Will you do as I ask?" he demanded.

Natalie answered him firmly: "No! I told you what I did tell you
only so that you might correct—"

"You rebel, eh?" Gordon spoke out furiously.

It was their first clash since the marriage. Mrs. Gordon looked
on, torn between loyalty to her husband and a desire to protect her
daughter. She was searching her mind painfully for the compromise, the
half-truth that was her remedy for every moral distress. At length she
said, placatingly:

"I'm sure Natalie will help you in any way she can, Curtis. She
isn't rebellious, she merely doesn't understand."

"She doesn't need to understand. It is enough that I direct her—
" As Natalie turned and walked silently to the window he stifled an
oath. "Have I no authority?" he stormed. "Do you mean to obey?"

"Wait!" Gloria laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Perhaps I can
learn what you want to know. Mr. O'Neil was very kind—"

Her daughter whirled, with white face and flashing eyes.

"Mother!" she gasped.

"Our loyalty begins at home," said Gloria, feebly.

"Oh-h! I can't conceive of your—of such a thing. If you have no
decency, I have. I'm sorry I spoke, but—if you DARE to do such a
thing I shall warn Mr. O'Neil that you are a spy." She turned a
glance of loathing on Gordon. "I see," she said, quietly. "You used
me as a tool. You lied about your feeling toward him. You meant harm
to him all the time." She faced the window again.

"Lied!" he shouted. "Be careful—that's pretty strong language.
Don't try me too far, or you may find yourself adrift once more. I
have been too patient. But I have other ways of finding out what I
wish to know, and I shall verify what you have told me." He strode
angrily from the room, leaving Natalie staring out upon the bleak fall
scene, her shoulders very straight, her breast heaving. Gloria did not
venture to address her.

Fortunately for the peace of all concerned, Gordon left for
Seattle on the next steamer. Neither of the women believed that
Natalie's fragmentary revelation was the cause of his departure; but,
once in touch with outside affairs, he lost no time in running down
the clues he had gathered, and it was not long before he had learned
enough to piece the truth together. Then he once more brought his
mimeograph into use.

The first winter snows found O'Neil's track laid to the bridge
site and the structure itself well begun. He had moved his office out
to the front, and now saw little of Eliza, who was busied in writing
her book. She had finished her magazine articles, and they had been
accepted, but she had given him no hint as to their character.

One afternoon "Happy Tom" burst in upon his chief, having hastened
out from Omar on a construction-train. Drawing a Seattle paper from
his pocket, he began excitedly:

"Well, the fat's in the fire, Murray! Somebody has belched up the
whole North Pass story."

O'Neil seized the newspaper and scanned it hurriedly. He looked
up, scowling.

"Who gave this out?" he inquired, in a harsh voice.

Slater shrugged. "It's in the Cortez Courier too, so I s'pose it
came from Gordon. Blessings come from one source, and Gordon's the
fountain of all evil. I'm getting so I blame him for everything
unpleasant. Sometimes I think he gave me the smallpox."

"Where did he learn the inside of Illis's deal? By God! There's a
leak somewhere!"

"Maybe he uncovered it back there in the States."

Murray shook his head. "Nobody knows anything about it except you
boys." He seized the telephone at his elbow and called Dr. Gray,
while Tom listened with his shining forehead puckered anxiously.
O'Neil hung up with a black face.

"Appleton!" he said.

Tom looked, if possible, a shade gloomier than usual. "I wouldn't
be too sure it was Dan if I was you," he ventured, doubtfully.

"Where is he?" O'Neil ground out the words between his teeth.

"Surveying the town-site addition. If he let anything slip it was
by mistake—"

"Mistake! I won't employ people who make mistakes of that kind.
This story may bring the Canadian Government down on Illis and
forfeit his North Pass charter—to say nothing of our authorities.
That would finish us." He rose, went to the door, and ordered the
recently arrived engine uncoupled. Flinging himself into his fur coat,
he growled: "I'd rather have a crook under me than a fool. Appleton
told us he talked too much."

Tom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Gordon got it through the
Gerard girl, I s'pose."

"Gordon! Gordon! Will there never be an end to Gordon?" His frown
deepened. "He's in the way, Tom. If he balks this deal I'm afraid
I'll—have to change ghosts."

"It would be a pious act," Slater declared. "And his ghost
wouldn't ha'nt you none, either. It would put on its asbestos
overshoes and go out among the other shades selling stock in electric
fans or 'Gordon's Arctic Toboggan Slide.' He'd promote a Purgatory
Development Company and underwrite the Bottomless Pit for its sulphur.
I—I'd hate to think this came from Dan."

The locomotive had been switched out by this time, and O'Neil
hurried to board it. On his way to Omar he had time thoroughly to
weigh the results of this unexpected complication. His present desire
was merely to verify his suspicion that Appleton had told his secret
to Natalie; beyond that he did not care to think, for there was but
one course open.

His anger reached the blazing-point after his arrival. As he
stepped down from the engine-cab Gray silently handed him a code
message from London which had arrived a few moments before. When its
contents had been deciphered, O'Neil cursed and he was furious as he
stumbled through the dark toward the green bungalow on the hill.

Swinging round the corner of the house, he came into a bright
radiance which streamed forth from Eliza's window, and he could not
help seeing the interior of the room. She was there, writing busily,
and he saw that she was clad in the elaborate kimono which he had
given her; yet it was not her personal appearance which arrested his
angry eyes and caused his step to halt; it was, instead, her
surroundings.

He had grown to accept her prim simplicity as a matter of course,
and never associated her in his thoughts with anything feminine, but
the room as it lay before him now was a revelation of daintiness and
artful decoration. Tasteful water-colors hung on the walls, a warm rug
was on the floor, and everywhere were rosy touches of color. The plain
white bed had been transformed into a couch of Oriental luxury; a lace
spread of weblike texture covered it, the pillows were hidden beneath
billowing masses of ruffles and ribbons. He saw a typical woman's cozy
corner piled high with cushions; there was a jar of burning incense
sticks near it—everything, in fact, was utterly at variance with his
notions of the owner. Even the girl herself seemed transfigured for
her hair was brought forward around her face in some loose mysterious
fashion which gave her a bewilderingly girlish appearance. As he
looked in upon her she raised her face so that the light shone full
upon it; her brows were puckered, she nibbled at the end of her
pencil, in the midst of some creative puzzle.

O'Neil's eyes photographed all this in a single surprised glance
as he passed; the next moment he was mounting the steps to the porch.

Dan flung open the door, but his words of greeting froze, his
smile of welcome vanished at sight of his chief's forbidding visage.

Murray was in no mood to waste words; he began roughly:

"Did you tell Miss Gerard that Poultney Illis is backing me?"

Dan stammered. "I—perhaps—I—What has gone wrong, Chief?"

"Did you tell her the inside—the story of his agreement with the
steamboat people?"

Dan paled beneath his tan, but his eyes met Murray's without
flinching. "I think I did—tell her something. I don't quite
remember. But anything I may have said was in confi—"

"I thought so. I merely wished to make certain. Well, the whole
thing is in the papers."

Appleton laid his hand upon the table to steady himself.

"Then it—didn't come from her. She wouldn't—"

"Gordon has spread the story broadcast. It couldn't have come from
any other source; it couldn't have reached him in any other way, for
none of my boys has breathed a word." His voice rose despite his
effort at self-control. "Illis's agreement was ILLEGAL," he said,
savagely; "it will probably forfeit the charter of the North Pass or
land him in court. I suppose you realize that! I discovered his secret
and assured him it was safe with me; now you peddle it to Gordon, and
the whole thing is public. Here's the first result." He shook the
London cablegram in Dan's face, and his own was distorted with rage.
There was a stir in Eliza's room which neither noticed. Appleton wiped
his face with uncertain hand; he moistened his lips to say:

"I—I'm terribly sorry! But I'm sure Natalie wouldn't spy—I don't
remember what I told her, or how I came to know about the affair. Doc
Gray told me, I think, in the first excitement, but— God!
She—wouldn't knowingly—"

"Gordon fired you for talking too much. I thought you had learned
your lesson, but it seems you hadn't. Don't blame Miss Gerard for
pumping you—her loyalty belongs to Gordon now. But I require
loyalty, too. Since you lack it you can go."

He nodded. "I'm sorry! I've trusted my 'boys' so implicitly that
the thought of betrayal by them never occurred to me. I can't have
men close to me who make such mistakes as this."

"Perhaps there was—an excuse, or the shadow of one, at least.
When a man is in love, you know—"

Murray wheeled upon Dan and demanded sharply:

"What's this?" Then in a noticeably altered tone he asked, "Do you
love—Natalie?"

"Yes."

"Does she love you?"

"No, sir!"

O'Neil turned back to the girl, saying: "I told Dan, when I hired
him, that he would be called upon to dare much, to suffer much, and
that my interests must be his. He has disregarded them, and he must
go. That's all. There's little difference between treachery and
carelessness."

"It's—too bad," said the girl, faintly. Dan stood stiff and
silent, wholly dazed by the sudden collapse of his fortunes.

"I'm not ungrateful for what you've done, Appleton," O'Neil went
on. "I intend to pay you well for the help you gave me. You took a
chance at the Canon and at Gordon's Crossing. You'll get a check."

"Nevertheless, I shall pay you well. It's highly probable that
you've wrecked the S. R. N. and ruined me, but I don't intend to
forget my obligations to you. It's unfortunate. Call on the cashier in
the morning. Good night."

He left them standing there unhappily, dumb and stiff with shame.
Once outside the house, he plunged down the hill as if fleeing from
the scene of some crime. He rushed through the night blindly, for he
had loved his assistant engineer, and the memory of that chalk-faced,
startled girl hurt him abominably.

When he came to the company office he was walking slowly, heavily.
He found Gray inside and dropped into a chair: his face was grimly
set, and he listened dully to the physician's rambling talk.

"I fired Appleton!" he broke out, at last. Gray looked up quickly.
"He acknowledged that he—did it. I had no choice. It came hard,
though. He's a good boy."

"He did some great work, Chief!"

"I know! That affair at the Crossing—I intend to pay him well, if
he'll accept. It's not that—I like those kids, Stanley. Eliza took it
harder than he. It wasn't easy for me, either," he sighed, wearily.
"I'd give ten thousand dollars if it hadn't happened. She looked as if
I'd struck her."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. He has been careless, disloyal—"

"You told them so?"

O'Neil nodded.

"And they said nothing?"

"Nothing! What could they say?"

Gray answered gruffly: "They might have said a good deal. They
might have told you how they paid off your men and saved a walk- out
when I had no money."

O'Neil stared incredulously. "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.

When he had the facts he rose with an exclamation of dismay.

"God! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't they speak out? I—I—
why, that's loyalty of the finest kind. All the money they had saved,
too—when they thought I had failed! Jove! That was fine. Oh, I'm
sorry! I wonder what they think of me? I can't let Dan go after that.
I—" He seized his cap and hurried out of the building.

"It's hardly right—when things were going so well, too!" said
Dan. He was sitting crumpled up in a chair, Eliza's arm encircling
his shoulders. "I didn't mean to give up any secrets, but—I'm not
myself when I'm with Natalie."

"We must take our medicine," his sister told him, gravely. "We
deserve it, for this story may spoil all he's done. I didn't think it
of her, though."

Dan groaned and bowed his head in his hands. "I don't know which
hurts worse," he said—"his anger or her action. She—couldn't do
such a thing, Sis; she just couldn't!"

"She probably didn't realize—she hasn't much sense, you know. But
after all he's suffered, to think that we should injure him! I could
cry. I think I shall."

The door opened before a rough hand, and O'Neil strode into the
room, huge, shaggy in his coonskin coat. They rose, startled, but he
came to them swiftly, a look of mingled shame and gladness in his
face.

"I've come back to apologize," he cried. "I couldn't wait. I've
learned what you children did while I was gone, and I've come to beg
forgiveness. It's all right—it's all right."

"I don't know what you mean," Dan gasped.

"Doc told me how you paid those men. That was real friendship; it
was splendid. It touched me, and I—I want to apologize. You see, I
hurried right back."

They saw that his eyes were moist, and at the sight Eliza gave a
quivering cry, then turned swiftly to hide her face. She felt
O'Neil's fur-clad arm about her shoulder; his hand was patting her,
and he was saying gently: "You are a dear child. It was tremendously
good of you both, and I—ought to be shot for acting as I did. I
wonder if you can accept a wretched apology as bravely as you accepted
a wrong accusation."

"It wasn't wrong; it was right," she sobbed. "Dan told her, and
she told Gordon."

"There, there! I was to blame, after all, for letting any one
know, and if Dan made a mistake he has more than offset it by his
unselfishness—his sacrifices. It seems I forgot how much I really
owe him."

"That affair with the shift bosses wasn't anything," said Dan,
hastily, "and it was all Eliza's idea. I refused at first, but when
she started to pay them herself I weakened." He stuttered awkwardly,
for his sister was motioning him desperately to be silent; but he ran
on: "Oh, he ought to know the whole truth and how rotten I acted, Sis.
I deserve to be discharged."

"Please don't make this any harder for me than it is," Murray
smiled. "I'm terribly embarrassed, for I'm not used to apologies. I
can't afford to be unjust; I—have so few friends that I want to
cherish them. I'm sorry you saw me in such a temper. Anger is a
treacherous thing, and it always betrays me. Let's forget that I was
here before and pretend that I just came to thank you for what you
did." He drew Dan into the shelter of his other arm and pressed the
two young people to him. "I didn't realize how deeply you kids care
for each other and for me."

"Then I'm not fired?" Dan queried, doubtfully.

"Of course not. When I take time to think about discharging a man
I invariably end by raising his salary."

"Dan isn't worth half what you're paying him," came Eliza's
muffled voice. She freed herself from Murray's embrace and rearranged
her hair with tremulous fingers. Surreptitiously she wiped her eyes.
"You gave us an awful fright; it's terrible to be evicted in
winter-time." She tried to laugh, but the attempt failed miserably.

"Perhaps I can help you to prevail on Miss Natalie to change her
mind. That would be a real service, wouldn't it?" Under his grave
glance Dan's heart leaped. "I can't believe she's indifferent to you,
my boy. You're suited to each other, and there's no reason on earth
why you shouldn't marry. Perhaps she doesn't know her own mind."

"Exactly. If she were, Dan would need to court her and send her
bouquets of wild violets. She's over-civilized, and therefore he
needs to be primitive."

Dan blushed and faltered. "I can't be firm with her, Murray; I
turn to jelly whenever she looks at me." There was something so
friendly and kind in his employer's attitude that the young fellow
was tempted to pour out all his vexations; he had never felt so close
to O'Neil as now; but his masculine reserve could not be overcome all
in a moment, and he held his tongue.

When Murray had put the two young people fully at their ease he
rose to go, but Eliza's eager voice made him turn with his hand on
the door-knob.

"What can we do about this unfortunate Illis affair?" she asked.
"Dan must try to—"

"Leave that to me. I'll straighten it out somehow. It is all my
fault, and I'll have to meet it." He pressed their hands warmly.

When he had gone Dan heaved a great sigh of relief.

"I'm glad it happened just as it did, Sis," he announced. "He
knows my secret now, and I can see that he never cared for Natalie.
It's a load off my mind to know the track is clear."

"What a simpleton you are!" she told him. "Don't you see he's
merely paying his debt?"

"I wonder—" Dan eyed her in amazement.

"Gee! If that's so he is a prince, isn't he?"

The same ship which had brought the ominous news to O'Neil also
brought Curtis Gordon north. He had remained in Seattle only long
enough to see the Illis story in print, and then had hastened back to
the front. But his satisfaction over the mischief he had done received
a rude jolt when at his first moment of leisure he looked over the
late magazines which he had bought before taking leave. In one which
had appeared on the news-stands that very day he found, to his
amazement, an article by Miss Eliza Appleton, in which his own picture
appeared. He pounced upon it eagerly; and then, as he read, his eyes
narrowed and his jaw stiffened. There, spread out to the public gaze,
was his own record in full, including his initial venture into the
Kyak coal-fields, his abandonment of that project in favor of Hope
Consolidated, and an account of his connection with the latter
enterprise. Eliza had not hesitated to call the mine worthless, and
she showed how he, knowing its worthlessness from the first, had used
it as a lure to investors. Then followed the story of his efforts to
gain a foothold in the railroad struggle, his defeat at the Salmon
River Canon, his rout at the delta crossing, and his final death-blow
at Kyak. His career stood out boldly in all its fraudulent colors;
failure was written across every one of his undertakings. The naked
facts showed him visionary, incompetent, unscrupulous.

Thus far he had succeeded in keeping a large part of his stock-
holders in ignorance of the true condition of Hope Consolidated, but
he quailed at the inevitable result of this article, which had been
flung far and wide into every city and village in the land. He dared
not think of its effect upon his present enterprise, now so
auspiciously launched. He had made a ringing appeal to the public, and
its support would hinge upon its confidence in him as a man of
affairs. Once that trust was destroyed the Cortez Home Railway would
crumble as swiftly as had all his other schemes.

The worst of it was that he knew himself shut off from the world
for five days as effectually as if he were locked in a dungeon. There
was no wireless equipment on the ship, he could not start the
machinery of his press bureau, and with every hour this damnable story
was bound to gain momentum. He cursed the luck which had set him on
this quest for vengeance and bound his hands.

Once he had gathered his wits, he occupied himself in the only
possible way—by preparing a story of his own for the wire. But for
the first time in his experience he found himself upon the defensive
and opposing a force against which no bland persuasiveness, no
personal magnetism could prevail. In the scattered nature of his
support lay his greatest weakness, for it made the task of
self-justification extremely difficult. Perhaps it was well for his
peace of mind that he could not measure the full effect of those
forces which Eliza Appleton's pen had set in motion.

In Omar, of course, the article excited lively interest. O'Neil
felt a warm thrill of satisfaction as he read it on the morning after
his scene with Eliza and Dan. But it deepened his feeling of
obligation almost painfully; for, like all who are thoughtlessly
prodigal of their own favors, he was deeply sensible of any kindness
done himself. Eliza's dignified exposition of Alaskan affairs, and
particularly the agreeable things she had written about him, were sure
to be of great practical assistance, he knew, and he longed to make
some real return. But so far as she was concerned there seemed to be
nothing that he could do. With Dan, of course, it was quite
different. Mere money or advancement, he admitted seemed paltry, but
there was a possibility of another kind of service.

Meanwhile Dan was struggling with his problem in his own way. The
possibility that Natalie had voluntarily betrayed him was a racking
torture, and the remembrance of Eliza's words added to his suffering.
He tried to gain some hint of his chief's feeling, but Murray's frank
and friendly attitude baffled him.

When at last he received a brief note from Natalie asking him to
call, he raced to Hope afraid, yet eager to hear what she might say.
She met him on the dock as he left the S. R. N. motorboat and led him
directly to the house.

Natalie went straight to the point. "I'm in dreadful trouble," she
said, "and I sent for you to tell you that I had no idea of betraying
confidences."

Dan uttered some inane platitude, but his eyes lighted with
relief.

"When I saw in the papers what a stir that North Pass Yukon story
had made I was afraid I had done something dreadful. Tell me, is it
so? Did I make trouble?"

"N-no! He says you're on Gordon's side now. He blames me, or did,
until he generously took it on himself."

"What does it all mean? I'm nearly distracted." Natalie's eyes
were pleading. "Did you think I spied on you?"

Dan glowed with embarrassment and something more. "I didn't know
what to think," he said. "I was wretchedly miserable, for I was
afraid. And yet I knew you couldn't do such a thing. I told O'Neil I
wasn't responsible for what I did or said when with you."

"Mr. Gordon sent me to Omar purposely. He sent me twice. It was I
who brought him word that the road was saved. I told all I'd learned
because I believed he no longer hated Mr. O'Neil. I was happy to tell
all I knew, for he deceived me as he deceives every one. I learned the
truth too late."

"Why do you stay here?" Dan demanded, hotly.

"Why? I—don't know. Perhaps because I'm afraid to leave. I'm
alone—you see mother believes in him: she's completely under his
sway, and I can't tell her the sort of man he is. She's happy, and
her happiness is worth more to me than my own. But—I SHALL go away. I
can't stand it here much longer."

"Where will you go?"

"Back to my old home, perhaps. Somewhere—anywhere away from
Alaska."

"I suppose you know I can't get along without you."

"Please don't! You have been very good and sweet to me, but—" She
shook her dark head. "You couldn't marry me—even if I cared for you
in that way."

"Why? I intend to marry you whether you want to or not."

"Oh, Dan, it wouldn't do. You know—about—mother. I've nearly
died of shame, and—it would be sure to come up. Somebody would speak
of it, sometime."

Dan's blue eyes went cold and smoky as he said:

"It would take a pretty brave person to mention the subject in my
presence. I don't care a whoop for anything Gordon or your family may
say or do. I—"

There was a stir in the hall outside, and the speaker turned to
behold Curtis Gordon himself in the doorway. The latter in passing
had been drawn by the sound of voices and had looked into the library.
Recognizing Natalie's caller, he frowned.

"What is this?" he inquired, coldly. "A proposal? Do I interrupt?"

"You do," said Dan; then, after a pause, "I'll finish it when you
leave."

Gordon entered, and spoke to his stepdaughter.

"What is this man doing in my house?"

"He is here at my invitation," she replied.

"Tell him to leave. I won't have him here."

"Why don't YOU tell me?" cried Dan. "I don't need an interpreter."

"Young man, don't be rash. There is a limit to my patience. If you
have the indecency to come here after what you have done, and after
what your sister has said about me, I shall certainly—"

Dan broke in roughly: "I didn't come to see you, Gordon. You may
be an agreeable sight to some people, but you're no golden sunset in
my eyes. Eliza flattered you."

Natalie gave a little terrified cry, for the men were glaring at
each other savagely. Neither seemed to hear her.

"Did you read that article?"

"Read it? I wrote it!"

Gordon's face flamed suddenly with rage; he pointed to the door
with trembling fingers, and shouted:

"Get out! I'll not have you here. I discharged you once. Get out!"
His utterance was rapid and thick.

Dan turned to the girl, who, after that first outcry, had stood as
if spellbound, her face pale, her eyes shining.

"Natalie dear," he said, earnestly, "you can't live in the same
house with this beast. He's a cheat and a scoundrel. He's done his
best to spoil your life, and he'll succeed if you stay, so come with
me now. Eliza loves you and wants you, and I'll never cease loving you
with all my heart. Marry me, and we'll go—"

Gordon uttered an inarticulate sound and came forward with his
hands working hungrily.

"Don't interrupt!" warned Dan, over his shoulder, and his white
teeth gleamed in sudden contrast with his tan. "No man could love you
as I do, dear—" Gordon's clutch fell upon him and tightened. Dan
stiffened, and his words ceased. Then the touch upon his flesh became
unbearable. Whirling, he wrenched himself free. He was like a wild
animal now; body and spirit had leaped into rebellion at contact with
Gordon. His long resentment burst its bounds; his lean muscles
quivered. His frame trembled as if it restrained some tremendous
pressure from within.

"Don't do that!" he cried, hoarsely, and brushed the sleeve where
his enemy's fingers had rested, as if it had been soiled.

Gordon snarled, and stretched out his hand a second time; but the
younger man raised his fist and struck. Once, twice, again and again
he flung his bony knuckles into that purple, distorted face, which he
loathed as a thing unclean. He battered down the big man's guard:
right and left he rained blows, stepping forward as his victim fell
back. Gordon reeled, he pawed wildly, he swung his arms, but they
encountered nothing. Yet he was a heavy man, and, although half
stunned by the sudden onslaught, he managed to retain his feet until
he brought up against the heavy mahogany reading-table in the center
of the room. His retreat ended there; another blow and his knees
buckled, his arms sagged. Then Dan summoned all his strength and
swung. Gordon groaned, lurched forward, and sprawled upon the warm red
velvet carpet, face down, with his limbs twisted under him.

His vanquisher stood over him for an instant, then turned upon
Natalie a face that was now keen and cruel and predatory.

"Come! We'll be married to-day," he said; and, crossing swiftly,
he took her two hands in his. His voice was harsh and imperative.
"He's down and out, so don't be frightened. Now hurry! I've had
enough of this damned nonsense."

"I—I'm not frightened," she said, dazedly. "But—I—" Her eyes
roved past him as if in quest of something.

"Here! This'll do for a wrap." Dan whipped his fur overcoat from a
chair and flung it about her. "My hat, too!" He crushed his gray
Stetson over her dark hair and, slipping his arm about her shoulders,
urged her toward the hall.

"Mother! She'll never—"

"We'll call on her together. I'll do the talking for both of us."
He jerked the front door open with a force that threatened to wrench
it from its hinges and thrust his companion out into the bracing cold.
Then, as Gordon's Japanese butler came running from the rear of the
house, he turned.

"Hey, you!" he cried, sharply. "The boss has gone on a little
visit. Don't stumble over him. And tell Mrs. Gordon that Mr. and Mrs.
Appleton will call on her in a few days—Mr. and Mrs. Dan Appleton, of
Omar!"

It was but a few steps to the pier; Dan felt that he was treading
on air, for the fierce, unreasoning joy of possession was surging
through his veins. His old indecision and doubt was gone, and the men
he met recoiled before his hostile glance, staring after him in
bewilderment.

But as he lifted Natalie down into the launch he felt her shaking
violently, and of a sudden his selfish exultation gave way to a
tender solicitude.

She raised her face to his, and his head swam, for he saw that she
was radiant.

"I'm not crying; I'm laughing. I—I'm mad—insane with happiness."

He crushed her to him, he buried his face in her neck, mumbling
her name over and over: and neither of them knew that he was
rapturously kissing the coonskin collar of his own greatcoat. The
launchman, motor crank in hand, paused, staring; he was still
open-mouthed when Dan, catching sight of him, shouted:

"What's the matter, idiot? Is your back broken?"

"Yes—No, sir!" The fellow spun the fly-wheel vigorously; the
little craft began to vibrate and quiver and then swung out from
shore.

A moment later and the engineman yelled. He came stumbling forward
and seized the steering-wheel as the boat grazed a buoy.

"That's right, you steer," Dan laughed, relaxing his hold. To
Natalie he said, "There's a sky-pilot in Omar," and pressed her to
him.

"It's a long way to Omar," she answered, then hid her face against
his breast and said, meekly, "There's one in Cortez, too, and he's
much nearer."

Eliza's greeting to the runaways was as warm as their hearts could
wish. She divined the truth before they could speak, and took Natalie
in her arms with a glad cry of welcome. The two girls kissed each
other, wept, laughed, wept a little more, kissed again, and then the
story came out.

Dan was plainly swollen with pride.

"I walloped him, Sis!" he told her. "I got even for the whole
family, and I believe his eyes are closed even to the beauties of
nature. He won't be able to read the wedding-notice."

Eliza hugged his arm and looked at him adoringly.

"It must have been perfectly splendid!"

Natalie nodded. "I was asleep," she said, "but Dan shocked me wide
awake. Can you imagine it? I didn't know my own feelings until he went
for—that brute. Then I knew all at once that I had loved him all the
time. Isn't it funny? It came over me—so suddenly! I—I can't realize
that he's mine." She turned her eyes upon him with an expression that
made his chest swell proudly.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "If I'd known how she felt I'd have pitched
into the first fellow I met. A man's an awful fool till he gets
married."

There followed a recital of the day's incidents, zestful, full of
happy digressions, endless; for the couple, after the manner of
lovers, took it for granted that Eliza was caught up into the seventh
heaven along with them. Dan was drunk with delight, and his bride
seemed dizzied by the change which had overtaken her. She looked upon
it as miraculous, almost unbelievable, and under the spell of her
happiness her real self asserted itself. Those cares and humiliations
which had reacted to make her cold and self-contained disappeared,
giving place to an impetuous girlishness that distracted her newly
made husband and delighted Eliza. The last lingering doubts that Dan's
sister had cherished were cleared away.

It was not until the bride had been banished to prepare for dinner
that Eliza thought to ask her brother:

"Have you told Mr. O'Neil?"

The triumph faded suddenly out of his face.

"Gee, no! I haven't told anybody."

They stared at each other, reading the thoughts they had no need
to voice. "Well, I've done it! It's too late now," said Dan,
defiantly.

"Maybe he'll fire us again. I would if I were he. You must tell
him this very minute."

"I—suppose so," he agreed, reluctantly, and picked up his hat.
"And yet—I—I wonder if I'd better, after all. Don't you think it
would sound nicer coming from some one else?"

"Why?"

"Wouldn't it seem like crowing for me to—to—For instance, now,
if you—"

"Coward!" exclaimed the girl.

He nodded. "But, Sis, you DO have a nicer way of putting things
than I have."

"Why, I wouldn't tell him for worlds. I couldn't. Poor man! We've
brought him nothing but sorrow and bad luck."

"It's fierce!"

"Well, don't hesitate. That's what Gordon did, and he got licked."

Dan scowled and set his features in a brave show of moral courage.
"She's mine, and he can't take her away," he vowed, "so —I don't care
what happens. But I'd just as soon slap a baby in the face." He left
the house like a man under sentence.

When he returned, a half-hour later, Eliza was awaiting him on the
porch. She had been standing there with chattering teeth and limbs
shaking from the cold while the minutes dragged.

"What did he say?" she asked, breathlessly.

"It went off finely. Thank Heaven, he was out at the front, so I
could break it to him over the 'phone!"

"Did he—curse you?"

"No; I opened right up by saying I had bad news for him—"

"Oh, Dan!"

"Yes! I dare say I wasn't very tactful, now that I think it over,
but, you see, I was rattled. I spilled out the whole story at once.
'Bad news?' said he. 'My dear boy, I'm delighted. God bless you both.'
Then he made me tell him how it all happened, and listened without a
word. I thought I'd faint. He pulled some gag about Daniel and the
lion; then his voice got far away and the blamed wire began to buzz,
so I hung up and beat it back here. I'm glad it's over."

"He'll probably send you a solid-silver dinner-set or raise your
pay. That's the kind of man he is." Eliza's voice broke. "Oh, Danny,"
she cried, "he's the dearest, sweetest thing—" She turned away, and
he kissed her sympathetically before going inside to the waiting
Natalie.

Instead of following, Eliza remained on the porch, gazing down at
the lights of the little city. An engine with its row of empty flats
rolled into the yard, panting from its exertions; the notes of a piano
came to her faintly from the street below. The lights of an incoming
steamer showed far down the sound. O'Neil had made all this, she
reflected: the busy town, the hopeful thousands who came and went
daily owed their prosperity to him. He had made the wilderness
fruitful, but what of his own life? She suspected that it was as bleak
and barren as the mountain slopes above Omar. He, too, looked down
upon this thriving intimate little community, but from a distance.
Beneath his unfailing cheerfulness she felt sure there lurked a hunger
which the mere affection of his 'boys' could never satisfy. And now
the thought that Dan had come between him and his heart's desire
filled her with pity. He seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a
man, despite his material success. When his enemies were doing, had
already done, so much to defeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted
friend should step between him and the fulfilment of his dearest
ambition—that ambition common to all men, failure in which brings a
sense of failure to a man's whole life, no matter what other ends are
achieved. Of course, he would smile and swallow his bitterness—that
was his nature—but she would know the truth.

"Poor Omar Khayyam," she thought, wistfully, "I wish there were
love enough in the world for you. I wish there were two Natalies, or
that—" Then she shook the dream from her mind and went into the
house, for the night was cold and she was shaking wretchedly.

O'Neil behaved more handsomely even than Eliza had anticipated. He
hurried into town on the following morning, and his congratulations
were so sincere, his manner so hearty that Dan forgot his
embarrassment and took a shameless delight in advertising his
happiness. Nor did Murray stop with mere words: he summoned all his
lieutenants, and Omar rang that night with a celebration such as it
had never before known. The company chef had been busy all day, the
commissary had been ransacked, and the wedding-supper was of a nature
to interfere with office duties for many days thereafter. Tom Slater
made a congratulatory speech—in reality, a mournful adjuration to
avoid the pitfalls of matrimonial inharmony—and openly confessed that
his digestion was now impaired beyond relief. Others followed him;
there was music, laughter, a riotous popping of corks; and over it all
O'Neil presided with grace and mellowness. Then, after the two young
people had been made thoroughly to feel his good will, he went back to
the front, and Omar saw him but seldom in the weeks that followed.

To romantic Eliza, this self-sought seclusion had but one
meaning—the man was broken-hearted. She did not consider that there
might be other reasons for his constant presence at the glaciers.

Of course, since the unwelcome publication of the North Pass Yukon
story O'Neil had been in close touch with Illis, and by dint of strong
argument had convinced the Englishman of his own innocence in the
affair. A vigorous investigation might have proved disastrous, but,
fortunately, Curtis Gordon lacked leisure in which to follow the
matter up. The truth was that after his public exposure at Eliza's
hands he was far too busy mending his own fences to spare time for
attempts upon his rival. Consequently, the story was allowed to die
out, and O'Neil was finally relieved to learn that its effect had been
killed. Precisely how Illis had effected this he did not know, nor did
he care to inquire. Illis had been forced into an iniquitous bargain;
and, since he had taken the first chance to free himself from it, the
question of abstract right or wrong was not a subject for squeamish
consideration.

It was at about this time that the sanguinary affray at Beaver
Canon began to bear fruit. One day a keen-faced, quiet stranger
presented a card at Murray's office, with the name:

HENRY T. BLAINE.

Beneath was the address of the Heidlemann building in New York,
but otherwise the card told nothing. Something in Mr. Blaine's
bearing, however, led Murray to treat him with more than ordinary
consideration.

"I should like to go over your work," the stranger announced; and
O'Neil himself acted as guide. Together they inspected the huge
concrete abutments, then were lowered into the heart of the giant
caissons which protruded from the frozen stream. The Salmon lay
locked in its winter slumber now, the glaciers stood as silent and
inactive as the snow-mantled mountains that hemmed them in. Down into
the very bowels of the river the men descended, while O'Neil described
the nature of the bottom, the depth and character of his foundations,
and the measure of his progress. He explained the character of that
bar which lay above the bridge site, and pointed out the heavy layers
of railroad iron with which his cement work was reinforced.

"I spent nearly two seasons studying this spot before I began the
bridge," he continued. "I had men here, night and day, observing the
currents and the action of the ice. Then I laid my piers accordingly.
They are armored and reinforced to withstand any shock."

"The river is subject to quick rises, I believe?" suggested
Blaine.

"Twenty feet in a few hours."

"The volley of ice must be almost irresistible."

"Almost," Murray smiled. "Not quite. Our ice-breakers were
especially designed by Parker to withstand any weight. There's
nothing like them anywhere. In fact, there will be nothing like this
bridge when it's completed." Blaine offered no comment, but his
questions searched to the depths of the builder's knowledge. When they
were back in camp he said:

"Of course you know why I'm here?"

"Your card told me that, but I don't need the Heidlemanns now."

"We are prepared to reopen negotiations."

"Why?"

"My people are human; they have feelings. You read Gordon's lies
about us and about that fight at Beaver Canon? Well, we're used to
abuse, and opposition of a kind we respect; but that man stirred
public opinion to such a point that there's no further use of heeding
it. We're ready to proceed with our plans now, and the public can go
to the devil till it understands us better. We have several men in
jail at Cortez, charged with murder: it will cost us a fortune to free
the poor fellows. First the Heidlemanns were thieves and grafters and
looters of the public domain; now they have become assassins! If this
route to the interior proves feasible, well and good; if not, we'll
resume work at Cortez next spring. Kyak, of course, is out of the
question."

"This route depends upon the bridge."

"Exactly."

"It's a two years' job."

"You offered to complete it this winter, when you talked with Mr.
Herman Heidlemann."

"And—I can."

"Then we'll consider a reasonable price. But we must know
definitely where we stand by next spring. We have a great deal of
capital tied up in the interior; we can't wait."

"This delay will cost you something."

Mr. Blaine shrugged. "You made that point plain when you were in
New York. We're accustomed to pay for our mistakes."

"Will you cover this in the shape of an option?"

"That's what I'm here for. If you finish your bridge and it stands
the spring break-up, we'll be satisfied. I shall expect to stay here
and watch the work."

O'Neil agreed heartily. "You're very welcome, Mr. Blaine. I like
your brand of conversation. I build railroads; I don't run them. Now
let's get down to figures."

The closing of the option required several weeks, of course, but
the outcome was that even before mid-winter arrived O'Neil found
himself in the position he had longed to occupy. In effect the sale
was made, and on terms which netted him and his backers one hundred
per cent. profit. There was but one proviso—namely, that the bridge
should be built by spring. The Heidlemanns were impatient, their
investment up to date had been heavy, and they frankly declared that
failure to bridge the chasm on time would convince them that the task
was hopeless. In a way this was unreasonable, but O'Neil was well
aware that they could not permit delay—or a third failure: unless his
route was proved feasible without loss of time they would abandon it
for one they knew to be certain, even though more expensive. He did
not argue that the task was of unprecedented difficulty, for he had
made his promise and was ready to stand or fall by it. It is doubtful,
however, if any other contractor would have undertaken the work on
such time; in fact, had it been a public bridge it would have required
four years in the building. Yet O'Neil cheerfully staked his fortune
on completing it in eight months.

With his option signed and the task squarely confronting him, he
realized with fresh force its bigness and the weight of
responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. He began the most
dramatic struggle of his career, a fight against untried conditions,
a desperate race against the seasons, with ruin as the penalty of
defeat.

The channel of the Salmon at this point is fifteen hundred feet
wide and thirty feet deep. Through it boils a ten-mile current; in
other words, the waters race by with the speed of a running man. Over
this O'Neil expected to suspend a structure capable of withstanding
the mightiest strains to which any bridge had ever been subjected.
Parker's plans called for seventeen thousand yards of cement work and
nine million pounds of steel, every part of which must be fabricated
to a careful pattern. It was a man- sized job, and O'Neil was thankful
that he had prepared so systematically for the work; that he had
gathered his materials with such extraordinary care. Supplies were
arriving now in car- loads, in train-loads, in ship-loads: from
Seattle, from Vancouver, from far Pittsburg they came in a thin
continuous stream, any interruption of which meant confusion and
serious loss of time. The movement of this vast tonnage required the
ceaseless attention of a corps of skilled men.

He had personally directed affairs up to this point, but he now
obliterated himself, and the leadership devolved upon two others
—Parker, small, smiling, gentle-mannered; Mellen, tall, angular,
saturnine. Upon them, engineer and bridge-builder, O'Neil rested his
confidence, serene in the knowledge that of all men they were the
ablest in their lines. As for himself, he had all he could do to bring
materials to them and to keep the long supply-trail open. Long it was,
indeed; for the shortest haul was from Seattle, twelve hundred miles
away, and the steel bridge members came from Pennsylvania.

The piers at Omar groaned beneath the cargoes that were belched
from the big freighters—incidentally, "Happy Tom" Slater likewise
groaned beneath his burdens as superintendent of transportation. At
the glaciers a city as large as Omar sprang up, a city with electric
lights, power-houses, machine shops, freight yards, and long rows of
winter quarters. It lay behind ramparts of coal, of grillage timbers
and piling, of shedded cement barrels, and tons of steel. Over it the
winter snows sifted, the north winds howled, and the arctic cold
deepened.

Here, locked in a mountain fastness more than a thousand miles
from his base of supplies, O'Neil began the decisive struggle of his
life. Here, at the focusing point of his enterprise, in the white heat
of the battle, he spent his time, heedless of every other interest or
consideration. The shifts were lengthened, wages were increased, a
system of bonuses was adopted. Only picked men were given places, but
of these there were hundreds: over them the grim-faced Mellen brooded,
with the fevered eye of a fanatic and a tongue of flame. Wherever
possible the men were sheltered, and steam-pipes were run to guard
against the cold; but most of the labor was, of necessity, performed
in the open and under trying conditions. At times the wind blew a
hurricane; always there was the bitter cold. Men toiled until their
flesh froze and their tools slipped from their fingers, then dragged
themselves stiffly into huts and warmed themselves for further
effort. They worked amid a boiling snow-smother that hid them from
view, while gravel and fine ice cut their faces like knives; or again,
on still, sharp days, when the touch of metal was like the bite of
fangs and echoes filled the valley to the brim with an empty clanging.
But they were no ordinary fellows—no chaff, to drift with the wind:
they were men toughened by exposure to the breath of the north, men
winnowed out from many thousands of their kind. Nor were they driven:
they were led. Mellen was among them constantly; so was the
soft-voiced smiling Parker, not to mention O'Neil with his cheery
laugh and his words of praise. Yet often it was hard to keep the work
moving at all; for steam condensed in the cylinders, valves froze
unless constantly operated, pipes were kept open only by the use of
hot cloths: then, too, the snow crept upward steadily, stealthily,
until it lay in heavy drifts which nearly hid the little town and
changed the streets to miniature canons.

Out of this snow-smothered, frost-bound valley there was but one
trail. The army lay encamped in a cul de sac; all that connected it
with the outside world were two slender threads of steel. To keep them
clear of snow was in itself a giant's task; for as yet there were no
snow-sheds, and in many places the construction- trains passed through
deep cuts between solid walls of white. Every wind filled these level
and threatened to seal the place fast; but furiously the "rotaries"
attacked the choking mass, slowly it was whirled aside, and onward
flowed that steady stream of supplies. No army of investment was ever
in such constant peril of being cut off. For every man engaged in the
attack there was another behind him fighting back the allied forces
which swept down from either hand.

Only those who know that far land in her sterner moods can form
any conception of the stupefying effect of continuous, unbroken cold.
There is a point beyond which the power of reaction ceases: where the
human mind and body recoils uncontrollably from exposure, and where
the most robust effort results in a spiritless inactivity. It is then
that efficiency is cut in half, then cut again. And of all the terrors
of the Arctic there is none so compelling as the wind. It is a
monstrous, deathly thing, a creature that has life and preys upon the
agony of men. There are regions sheltered from it, of course; but in
the gutters which penetrate the mountain ranges it lurks with constant
menace, and of all the coast from Sitka westward the valley of the
Salmon is the most evil.

In the throat of this mighty-mouthed funnel, joining the still,
abysmal cold of the interior with the widely varying temperatures of
the open sea, O'Neil's band was camped, and there the great hazard was
played. Under such conditions it was fortunate indeed that he had
field-marshals like Parker and Mellen, for no single man could have
triumphed. Parker was cautious, brilliant, far- sighted; he reduced
the battle to paper, he blue-printed it; with sliding-rule he analyzed
it into inches and pounds and stresses and strains: Mellen was like a
grim Hannibal, tireless, cunning, cold, and he wove steel in his
fingers as a woman weaves her thread.

It was a remarkable alliance, a triumvirate of its kind
unsurpassed. As the weeks crept into months it worked an engineering
marvel.

With the completion of the railroad to the glacier crossing there
came to it a certain amount of travel, consisting mainly of
prospectors bound to and from the interior. The Cortez winter trail
was open, and over it passed most of the traffic from the northward
mining-camps, but now and then a frost-rimed stranger emerged from the
canon above O'Neil's terminus with tales of the gold country, or a
venturesome sledge party snow-shoed its way inland from the end of the
track. Murray made a point of hauling these trailers on his
construction-trains and of feeding them in his camps as freely as he
did his own men. In time the wavering line of sled-tracks became
fairly well broken, and scarcely a week passed without bringing
several "mushers."

One day, as O'Neil was picking his way through the outskirts of
the camp, he encountered one of his night foremen, and was surprised
to see that the fellow was leading a trail-dog by a chain. Now these
malamutes are as much a part of the northland as the winter snows, and
they are a common sight in every community; but the man's patent
embarrassment challenged Murray's attention: he acted as if he had
been detected in a theft or a breach of duty.

"Hello, Walsh. Been buying some live stock?" O'Neil inquired.

"Yes, sir. I picked up this dog cheap."

"Harness too, eh?" Murray noted that Walsh's arms were full of
gear—enough, indeed, for a full team. Knowing that the foreman owned
no dogs, he asked, half banteringly:

"You're not getting ready for a trip, I hope?"

"No, sir. Not exactly, sir. The dog was cheap, so I—I just bought
him."

As a matter of fact, dogs were not cheap, and Walsh should have
been in bed at this hour. Murray walked on wondering what the fellow
could be up to.

Later he came upon a laborer dickering with a Kyak Indian over the
price of a fur robe, and in front of a bunk-house he found other
members of the night crew talking earnestly with two lately arrived
strangers. They fell silent as he approached, and responded to his
greeting with a peculiar nervous eagerness, staring after him
curiously as he passed on.

He expected Dr. Gray out from Omar, but as he neared the track he
met Mellen. The bridge superintendent engaged him briefly upon some
detail, then said:

"I don't know what's the matter with the men this morning. They're
loafing."

"Loafing? Nonsense! You expect too much."

Mellen shook his head. "The minute my back is turned they begin to
gossip. I've had to call them down."

"Perhaps they want a holiday."

"They're not that kind. There's something in the air."

While they were speaking the morning train pulled in, and O'Neil
was surprised to see at least a dozen townspeople descending from it.
They were loafers, saloon-frequenters, for the most part, and oddly
enough, they had with them dogs and sleds and all the equipment for
travel. He was prevented from making inquiry, however, by a shout from
Dr. Gray, who cried:

"Hey, Chief! Look who's here!"

O'Neil hastened forward with a greeting upon his lips, for Stanley
was helping Eliza and Natalie down from the caboose which served as a
passenger-coach.

The young women, becomingly clad in their warm winter furs, made a
picture good to look upon. Natalie had ripened wonderfully since her
marriage, and added to her rich dark beauty there was now an elusive
sweetness, a warmth and womanliness which had been lacking before. As
for Eliza, she had never appeared more sparkling, more freshly
wholesome and saucy than on this morning.

"We came to take pictures," she announced. "We want to see if the
bridge suits us."

"Don't you believe her, Mr. O'Neil," said Natalie. "Dan told us
you were working too hard, so Eliza insisted on taking you in hand.
I'm here merely in the office of chaperon and common scold. You HAVE
been overdoing. You're positively haggard."

Ignoring Murray's smiling assertion that he was the only man in
camp who really suffered from idleness, the girls pulled him about
and examined him critically, then fell to discussing him as if he were
not present.

"He's worn to the bone," said Eliza.

"Did you ever see anything like his wrinkles? He looks like a
dried apple," Natalie declared.

"Dan says he doesn't eat."

"Probably he's too busy to chew his food. We'll make him
Fletcherize-"

Natalie was shocked. "One pair of socks in this cold! It's time we
took a hand. Now lead us to this rabbit-hole where you live."

Reluctantly, yet with an unaccustomed warmth about his heart,
O'Neil escorted them to his headquarters. It was a sharp, clear
morning; the sky was as empty and bright as an upturned saucepan;
against it the soaring mountain peaks stood out as if carved from new
ivory. The glaciers to right and left were mute and motionless in the
grip of that force which alone had power to check them; the turbulent
river was hidden beneath a case- hardened armor; the lake, with its
weird flotilla of revolving bergs, was matted with a broad expanse of
white, across which meandered dim sled and snow-shoe trails. Underfoot
the paths gave out a crisp complaint, the sunlight slanting up the
valley held no warmth whatever, and their breath hung about their
heads like vapor, crystallizing upon the fur of their caps and hoods.

O'Neil's living-quarters consisted of a good-sized room adjoining
the office-building. Pausing at the door, he told his visitors:

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your zeal is utterly misplaced.
I live like a pasha, in the midst of debilitating luxuries, as you
will see for yourselves." He waved them proudly inside.

The room was bare, damp, and chill; it was furnished plentifully,
but it was in characteristically masculine disorder. The bed was
tumbled, the stove was half filled with cold ashes, the water pitcher
on the washstand had frozen. In one corner was a heap of damp
clothing, now stiff with frost.

"Now, see here," he said, firmly; "I haven't time to make beds,
and everybody else is busier than I am. I'm not in here enough to
make it worth while—I go to bed late, and I tumble out before dawn."

The girls exchanged meaning glances. Eliza began to lay off her
furs.

"Not bad, is it?" he said, hopefully.

Natalie picked up the discarded clothing, which crackled stiffly
under her touch and parted from the bare boards with a tearing sound.

"Frozen! The idea!" said she.

Eliza poked among the other garments which hung against the wall
and found them also rigid. The nail-heads behind them were coated
with ice. Turning to the table, with its litter of papers and the
various unclassified accumulation of a bachelor's house, she said:

"I suppose we'll have to leave this as it is."

"Just leave everything. I'll get a man to clean up while you take
pictures of the bridge." As Natalie began preparing for action he
queried, in surprise, "Don't you like my little home?"

"It's awful," the bride answered, feelingly.

"A perfect bear's den," Eliza agreed. "It will take us all day."

"It's just the way I like it," he told them; but they resolutely
banished him and locked the door in his face.

"Hey! I don't want my things all mussed up," he called, pounding
for re-admittance; "I know right where everything is, and—" The door
opened, out came an armful of papers, a shower of burnt matches, and a
litter of trash from his work-table. He groaned. Eliza showed her
countenance for a moment to say:

"Now, run away, little boy. You're going to have your face washed,
no matter how you cry. When we've finished in here we'll attend to
you." The door slammed once more, and he went away shaking his head.

At lunch-time they grudgingly admitted him, and, although they
protested that they were not half through, he was naively astonished
at the change they had brought to pass. For the first time in many
days the place was thoroughly warm and dry; it likewise displayed an
orderliness and comfort to which it had been a stranger. From some
obscure source the girls had gathered pictures for the bare walls;
they had hung figured curtains at the windows; there were fresh white
covers for bed, bureau, and washstand. His clothes had been
rearranged, and posted in conspicuous places were written directions
telling him of their whereabouts. One of the cards bore these words:
"Your soup! Take one in cup of hot brandy and water before retiring."
Beneath were a bottle and a box of bouillon tablets. A shining
tea-kettle was humming on the stove.

"This is splendid," he agreed, when they had completed a tour of
inspection. "But where are my blue-prints?"

"In the drafting-room, where they belong. This room is for rest
and sleep. We want to see it in this condition when we come back."

"Where did you find the fur rug?" He indicated a thick bearskin
beside the bed.

"We stole it from Mr. Parker," they confessed, shamelessly. "He
had two."

Eliza continued complacently: "We nearly came to blows with the
chef when we kidnapped his best boy. We've ordered him to keep this
place warm and look after your clothes and clean up every morning.
He's to be your valet and take care of you."

"We've given the chef your bill of fare, and your man Ben will see
that you eat it."

"I won't stand for soup. It—"

"Hush! Do you want us to come again?" Natalie demanded.

"Yes! Again and again!" He nodded vigorously. "I dare say I was
getting careless. I pay more attention to the men's quarters than to
my own. Do you know—this is the first hint of home I've had since I
was a boy? And—it's mighty agreeable." He stared wistfully at the
feminine touches on all sides.

The bride settled herself with needle and thread, saying:

"Now take Eliza to the bridge while the light is good; she wants
to snap-shoot it. I'm going to sew on buttons and enjoy myself."

O'Neil read agreement in Eliza's eyes, and obeyed. As they neared
the river-bank the girl exclaimed in surprise; for up out of the
frozen Salmon two giant towers of concrete thrust themselves, on each
bank were massive abutments, and connecting them were the beginnings
of a complicated "false-work" structure by means of which the steel
was to be laid in place. It consisted of rows upon rows of piling,
laced together with an intricate pattern of squared timbers. Tracks
were being laid upon it, and along the rails ran a towering movable
crane, or "traveler," somewhat like a tremendous cradle. This too was
nearing completion. Pile- drivers were piercing the ice with long
slender needles of spruce; across the whole river was weaving a
gigantic fretwork of wood which appeared to be geometrically regular
in design. The air was noisy with the cries of men, and a rhythmic
thudding, through which came the rattle of winches and the hiss of
steam. Over the whole vast structure swarmed an army of human ants,
feeble pygmy figures that crept slowly here and there, regardless of
their dizzy height.

"Isn't it beautiful?" said the builder, gazing at the scene with
kindling eyes. "We're breaking records every day in spite of the
weather. Those fellows are heroes. I feel guilty and mean when I see
them risking life and limb while I just walk about and look on."

"Will it—really stand the break-up?" asked the girl. "When that
ice goes out it will be as if the solid earth were sliding down the
channel. It frightens me to think of it."

"We've built solid rock; in fact, those piers are stronger than
rock, for they're laced with veins of steel and anchored beneath the
river-bed."

But Eliza doubted. "I've seen rivers break, and it's frightful;
but of course I've never seen anything to compare with the Salmon.
Suppose—just suppose there should be some weak spot—"

O'Neil settled his shoulders a little under his coat. "It would
nearly kill Mellen—and Parker, too, for that matter."

"And you?"

He hesitated. "It means a great deal to me. Sometimes I think I
could pull myself together and begin again, but—I'm getting old, and
I'm not sure I'd care to try." After a pause he added a little
stiffly, as if not quite sure of the effect of his words: "That's the
penalty of being alone in life, I suppose. We men are grand-stand
players: we need an audience, some one person who really cares whether
we succeed or fail. Your brother, for instance, has won more in the
building of the S. R. N. than I can ever hope to win."

Eliza felt a trifle conscious, too, and she did not look at him
when she said: "Poor, lonely old Omar Khayyam! You deserve all Dan
has. I think I understand why you haven't been to see us."

"I've been too busy; this thing has kept me here every hour. It's
my child, and one can't neglect his own child, you know—even if it
isn't a real one." He laughed apologetically. "See! there's where we
took the skiff that day we ran Jackson Glacier. He's harmless enough
now. You annoyed me dreadfully that morning, Eliza, and—I've never
quite understood why you were so reckless."

"I wanted the sensation. Writers have to live before they can
write. I've worked the experience into my novel."

"Indeed? What is your book about?"

"Well—it's the story of a railroad-builder, of a fellow who
risked everything he had on his own judgment. It's—you!"

"Why, my dear!" cried O'Neil, turning upon her a look of almost
comic surprise. "I'm flattered, of course, but there's nothing
romantic or uncommon about me."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not. But there ought to be a hero, and love, and—such
things—in a novel. You must have a tremendous imagination."

"Perhaps. I'm not writing a biography, you know. However, you
needn't be alarmed; it will never be accepted."

"It should be, for you write well. Your magazine articles are
bully."

Eliza smiled. "If the novel would only go as well as those stories
I'd be happy. They put Gordon on the defensive."

"I knew they would."

"Yes. I built a nice fire under him, and now he's squirming. I
think I helped you a little bit, too."

"Indeed you did—a great deal! When you came to Omar I never
thought you'd turn out to be my champion. I—" He turned as Dr. Gray
came hurrying toward them, panting in his haste.

The doctor began abruptly:

"I've been looking for you, Murray. The men are all quitting."

O'Neil started. "All quitting? What are you talking about?"

"There's a stampede—a gold stampede!"

Murray stared at the speaker as if doubting his own senses.

"There's no gold around here," he said, at last.

"Two men came in last night. They've been prospecting over in the
White River and report rich quartz. They've got samples with 'em and
say there are placer indications everywhere. They were on their way to
Omar to tell their friends, and telephoned in from here. Somebody
overheard and—it leaked. The whole camp is up in the air. That's what
brought out that gang from town this morning."

The significance of the incidents which had troubled him earlier
in the day flashed upon O'Neil; it was plain enough now why his men
had been gossiping and buying dogs and fur robes. He understood only
too well what a general stampede would mean to his plans, for it would
take months to replace these skilled iron-workers.

"Who are these prospectors?" he inquired, curtly.

"Nobody seems to know. Their names are Thorn and Baker. That gang
from Omar has gone on, and our people will follow in the morning.
Those who can't scrape up an outfit here are going into town to
equip. We won't have fifty men on the job by to-morrow night."

"What made Baker and Thorn stop here?"

Gray shrugged. "Tired out, perhaps. We've got to do something
quick, Murray. Thank God, we don't have to sell 'em grub or haul 'em
to Omar. That will check things for a day or two. If they ever start
for the interior we're lost, but the cataract isn't frozen over, and
there's only one sled trail past it. We don't need more than six good
men to do the trick."

"We can't stop a stampede that way."

Dr. Gray's face fell into harsh lines. "I'll bend a Winchester
over the first man who tries to pass. Appleton held the place last
summer; I'll guarantee to do it now."

"No. The men have a right to quit, Stanley. We can't force them to
work. We can't build this bridge with a chain-gang."

"Humph! I can beat up these two prospectors and ship 'em in to the
hospital until things cool down."

"That won't do, either. I'll talk with them, and if their story is
right—well, I'll throw open the commissary and outfit every one."

Eliza gasped; Gray stammered.

"You're crazy!" exclaimed the doctor.

"If it's a real stampede they'll go anyhow, so we may as well take
our medicine with a good grace. The loss of even a hundred men would
cripple us."

"The camp is seething. It's all Mellen can do to keep the day
shift at work. If you talk to 'em maybe they'll listen to you."

Eliza was speechless with dismay as she hurried along beside him;
Gray was scowling darkly and muttering anathemas; O'Neil himself was
lost in thought. The gravity of this final catastrophe left nothing to
be said.

Stanley lost little time in bringing the two miners to the office,
and there, for a half-hour, Murray talked with them. When they
perceived that he was disposed to treat them courteously they told
their story in detail and answered his questions with apparent
honesty. They willingly showed him their quartz samples and retailed
the hardships they had suffered.

Gray listened impatiently and once or twice undertook to
interpolate some question, but at a glance from his chief he
desisted. Nevertheless, his long fingers itched to lay hold of the
strangers and put an end to this tale which threatened ruin. His anger
grew when Murray dismissed them with every evidence of a full belief
in their words.

"Now that the news is out and my men are determined to quit, I
want everybody to have an equal chance," O'Neil announced, as they
rose to go. "There's bound to be a great rush and a lot of
suffering—maybe some deaths—so I'm going to call the boys together
and have you talk to them."

Thorn and Baker agreed and departed. As the door closed behind
them Gray exploded, but Murray checked him quickly, saying with an
abrupt change of manner: "Wait! Those fellows are lying!"

Seizing the telephone, he rang up Dan Appleton and swiftly made
known the situation. Stanley could hear the engineer's startled
exclamation.

"Get the cable to Cortez as quickly as you can," O'Neil was
saying. "You have friends there, haven't you? Good! He's just the
man, for he'll have Gordon's pay-roll. Find out if Joe Thorn and
Henry Baker are known, and, if so, who they are and what they've been
doing lately. Get it quick, understand? Then 'phone me." He slammed
the receiver upon its hook. "That's not Alaskan quartz," he said,
shortly; "it came from Nevada, or I'm greatly mistaken. Every
hard-rock miner carries specimens like those in his kit."

"You think Gordon—"

"I don't know. But we've got rock-men on this job who'll recognize
ore out of any mine they ever worked in. Go find them, then come back
here and hold the line open for Dan."

The news of O'Neil's attitude spread quickly, and excitement grew
among the workmen. Up through the chill darkness of early evening
they came charging. They were noisy and eager, and when the gong
summoned them to supper they rushed the mess-house in boisterous good
humor. No attempt was made to call out the night crew: by tacit
consent its members were allowed to mingle freely with their fellows
and plan for the morrow's departure. Some, envious of the crowd from
Omar which had profited by an early start, were anxious to be gone at
once, but the more sober-minded argued that the road to White River
was so long that a day's advantage would mean little in the end, and
the advance party would merely serve to break trail for those behind.

These men, be it said, were not those who had struck, earlier in
the season, at the behest of Gordon's emissary, Linn, but fellows
whose loyalty and industry were unquestioned. Their refusal to
stampede at the first news was proof of their devotion, yet any one
who has lived in a mining community knows that no loyalty of employee
to employer is strong enough to withstand for long the feverish
excitement of a gold rush. These bridge-workers were the aristocracy
of the whole force, men inured to hardship and capable of extreme
sacrifice in the course of their work; but they were also independent
Americans who believed themselves entitled to every reward which
fortune laid in their paths. For this reason they were even harder to
handle than the unskilled, unimaginative men farther down the line.

Long before the hour when O'Neil appeared the low-roofed mess-
house was crowded.

Natalie and Eliza, knowing the importance of this crisis, refused
to go home, and begged Murray to let them attend the meeting. Mr.
Blaine, who also felt the keenest concern in the outcome, offered to
escort them, and at last with some difficulty he managed to wedge them
inside the door, where they apprehensively scanned the gathering.

It was not an ideal place for a meeting of this size, but tables
and benches had been pushed aside, and into the space thus cleared
the men were packed. Their appearance was hardly reassuring: it was a
brawny, heavy-muscled army with which O'Neil had to deal—an army of
loud-voiced toilers whose ways were violent and whose passions were
quick. Nevertheless, the two girls were treated with the greatest
respect, and when O'Neil stepped to a bench and raised himself above
their heads his welcome was not unduly boisterous. Outside, the night
was clear and cold; inside the cramped quarters the air was hot and
close and fetid.

Murray had no skill as a public speaker in the ordinary sense; he
attempted no oratorical tricks, and addressed his workmen in a
matter-of-fact tone.

"Boys," he began, "there has been a gold strike at the head of the
White River, and you want to go. I don't blame you; I'd like to go
myself, if there's any chance to make money."

"You're all right, boss!" shouted some one; and a general laugh
attested the crowd's relief at this acceptance of the inevitable.
They had expected argument, despite the contrary assurances they had
received.

"Now we all want an even break. We want to know all there is to
know, so that a few fellows won't have the advantage of the rest. The
strike is three hundred miles away; it's winter, and—you know what
that means. I talked with Baker and Thorn this afternoon. I want them
to tell you just what they told me. That's why I called this meeting.
If you decide to go you won't have to waste time going to Omar after
your outfits, for I'll sell you what you want from my supplies. And
I'll sell at cost."

There was a yell of approval, a cheer for the speaker; then came
calls for Baker and Thorn.

The two miners were thrust forward, and the embarrassed Thorn, who
had acted as spokesman, was boosted to a table. Under Murray's
encouragement he stammered out the story of his good fortune, the tale
running straight enough to fan excitement into a blaze. There was no
disposition to doubt, for news of this sort is only too sure of
credence.

When the speaker had finished, O'Neil inquired:

"Are you an experienced quartz-miner? Do you know ore when you see
it?"

"Sure! I worked in the Jumbo, at Goldfield, Nevada, up to last
year. So did Baker."

"Not a soul. The country is open to the first comers. It's a
fine-looking country, too: we seen quartz indications everywhere. I
reckon this speaks for itself." Thorn significantly held up his ore
samples. "We've made our locations. You fellows is welcome to the
rest. First come, first served."

There was an eager scramble for the specimens on the part of those
nearest the speaker. After a moment Murray asked them:

"Did you fellows ever see any rock like that?"

One of his workmen answered:

"_I_ have."

"Where?"

"In the Jumbo, at Goldfield. I 'high-graded' there in the early
days."

There was a laugh at this. Thorn flushed angrily. "Well," he
rejoined, "we've got the same formation over there in the White
River. It's just like Goldfield. It 11 be the same kind of a camp,
too, when the news gets out."

O'Neil broke in smoothly, to say:

"Most of our fellows have no dogs. It will take them three weeks
to cover the trail. They'll have to spend three weeks in there, then
three weeks more coming out—over two months altogether. They can't
haul enough grub to do them." He turned to his employees and said
gravely: "You'd better think it over, boys. Those who have teams can
make it but the rest of you will get left. Do you think the chance is
worth all that work and suffering?"

The bridge-workers shifted uncomfortably on their feet. Then a
voice exclaimed:

"Don't worry, boss. We'll make it somehow."

"Thorn says there's nobody over there," Murray continued; "but
that seems strange, for I happen to know of half a dozen outfits at
the head of the White River. Jack Dalton has had a gang working there
for four years."

Dalton was a famous character in the north—one of the most
intrepid of the early pioneers—and the mention of his name brought a
hush. A large part of the audience realized the truth of O'Neil's last
statement, yet resented having it thrust upon them. Thorn and Baker
were scowling. Gray had just entered the room and was signaling to his
chief, and O'Neil realized that he must score a triumph quickly if he
wished to hold the attention of his men. He resumed gravely:

"If this strike was genuine I wouldn't argue, but—it isn't." A
confusion of startled protests rose; the two miners burst out
indignantly; but O'Neil, raising his voice for the first time,
managed to make himself heard. "Those jewelry samples came from
Nevada," he cried. "I recognized them myself this afternoon, and
here's another fellow who can't be fooled. Thorn told you he used to
work in Goldfield. You can draw your own conclusions."

The temper of the crowd changed instantly: jeers, groans, hisses
arose; the men were on their feet now, and growing noisier every
moment; Baker and Thorn were glaring balefully at their accuser. But
Gray succeeded in shouldering his way forward, and whispered to
O'Neil, who turned suddenly and faced the men again. "Just a minute!"
he shouted. "You heard Thorn say he and Baker went prospecting in
August. Well, we've just had Cortez on the cable and learn that they
were working for Gordon until two weeks ago." A sudden silence fell.
Murray smiled down at the two strangers. "What do you say to that?"

Thorn flew into a purple rage: "It's a damned lie! He's afraid
you'll quit work, fellows." Viciously he flung himself toward the
door, only to feel the grasp of the muscular physician upon his arm.

"Listen to this message from the cashier of the Cortez Home Bank!"
bellowed Gray, his big voice dominating the uproar. Undisturbed by his
prisoner's struggles, he read loudly:

The doctor's features spread into a broad grin. "You've all seen
the dog-team, and here's the red hair." His fingers sunk into his
prisoner's fiery locks with a grip that threatened to leave him a
scalp for a trophy. Thorn cursed and twisted.

The crowd's allegiance had been quick to shift, but it veered back
to O'Neil with equal suddenness.

"Bunco!" yelled a hoarse voice, after a brief hush.

"Lynch 'em!" cried another; and the angry clamor burst forth anew.

"Don't be foolish," shouted Murray; "nobody has been hurt."

"We'd have been on the trail to-morrow. Send 'em down the river
barefoot!"

"Yes! What about that gang from Omar?"

"I'm afraid they'll have to take care of themselves," O'Neil said.
"But these two men aren't altogether to blame; they're acting under
orders. Isn't that right?" he asked Thorn.

The miner hesitated, until the grip in his hair tightened; then,
evidently fearing the menace in the faces on every side, he decided
to seek protection in a complete confession.

"Yes!" he agreed, sullenly. "Gordon cooked it up. It's all a
fake."

O'Neil nodded with satisfaction. "This is the second time he's
tried to get my men away from me. The other time he failed because
Tom Slater happened to come down with smallpox. Thank God, he
recovered!"

A ripple of laughter spread, then grew into a bellow, for the
nature of "Happy Tom's" illness had long since become a source of
general merriment, and O'Neil's timely reference served to divert the
crowd. It also destroyed most of its resentment.

"You fellows don't seem able to protect yourselves; so Doc and I
will have to do it for you. Now listen," he continued, more gravely.
"I meant it when I said I'd open the commissary and help you out if
the strike were genuine, but, nevertheless, I want you to know just
what it would have meant to me. I haven't enough money to complete the
S. R. N., and I can't raise enough, but I have signed an option to
sell the road if the bridge is built by next spring. It's really a two
year's job, and some engineers don't believe it can be built at all,
but I know it can if you'll help. If we fail I'm ruined; if we
succeed"—he waved his hands and smiled at them cheerfully—"maybe
we'll build another railroad somewhere. That's what this stampede
meant. Now, will you stick to me?"

The answer roared from a hundred throats: "You bet we'll stick!"

At the rear of the room, whence they had witnessed the rapid
unfolding of this drama, the two girls joined in the shout. They were
hugging each other and laughing hysterically.

"He handled them just right," said Blaine, with shining eyes;
"just right—but I was worried."

Walsh, the night foreman, raised his voice to inquire:

"Does anybody want to buy a dog-team cheap?"

"Who wants dogs now?" jeered some one.

"Give 'em to Baker and Thorn!"

O'Neil was still speaking in all earnestness.

"Boys," he said; "we have a big job on our hands. It means fast
work, long hours, and little sleep. We picked you fellows out because
we knew you were the very best bridge-workers in the world. Now the
life of the S. R. N. lies with you, and that bridge MUST BE BUILT on
time. About these two men who tried to stampede us: I think it's
enough punishment if we laugh at them. Don't you?" He smiled down at
Thorn, who scowled, then grinned reluctantly and nodded his head.

When general good feeling was restored Murray attempted to make
his way out; but his men seemed determined to thank him one by one,
and he was delayed through a long process of hand-shaking. It pleased
him to see that they understood from what hardships and
disappointments he had saved them, and he was doubly grateful when
Walsh rounded up his crew and announced that the night shift would
resume work at midnight.

He escaped at last, leaving the men grouped contentedly about huge
pans of smoking doughnuts and pots of coffee, which the cook-boys had
brought in. Liquor was taboo in the camp, but he gave orders that
unlimited cigars be distributed.

When he reached his quarters he was completely fagged, for the
crisis, coming on top of his many responsibilities, had taken all his
vitality.

His once cheerless room was warm and cozy as he entered: he found
Natalie sleeping peacefully on his bed and Eliza curled up in his big
chair waiting. She opened her eyes drowsily and smiled up at him,
saying:

"You were splendid, Omar Khayyam. I'm SO glad."

He laid a finger on his lips and glanced at the sleeping Natalie.

"Sh-h!"

"Where are you going to put us for the night?"

"Right here, of course."

"Those men will do anything for you now. I—I think I'd die, too,
if anything happened to the bridge."

He took her hand in his and smiled down into her earnest eyes a
little wearily. "Nothing will happen. Now go to bed—and thank you
for making a home for me. It really is a home now. I'll appreciate it
to-morrow."

He tiptoed out and tramped over to Parker's quarters for the
night.

The news of the White River fiasco reached Curtis Gordon in
Seattle, whither he had gone in a final attempt to bolster up the
tottering fortunes of the Cortez Home Railway. His disappointment was
keen, yet O'Neil from the beginning had met his attacks with such
uniform success that new failure did not really surprise him; it had
been a forlorn hope at best. Strangely enough, he had begun to lose
something of his assurance of late. Although he maintained his outward
appearance of confidence with all his old skill, within himself he
felt a growing uneasiness, a lurking doubt of his abilities. Outwardly
there was reason enough for discouragement, for, while his
co-operative railroad scheme had begun brilliantly, its initial
success had not been sustained. As time passed and Eliza Appleton's
exposure remained unrefuted he had found it ever more difficult to
enlist support. His own denials and explanations seemed powerless to
affect the public mind, and as he looked back he dated his decline
from the appearance of her first article. It had done all the mischief
he had feared. Not only were his old stock-holders dissatisfied, but
wherever he went for aid he found a disconcerting lack of response, a
half-veiled skepticism that was maddening.

Yet his immediate business worries were not all, nor the worst of
his troubles: his physical powers were waning. To all appearances he
was as strong as ever, but a strange bodily lassitude hampered him; he
tired easily, and against this handicap he was forced to struggle
continually. He had never rightly valued his amazing equipment of
energy until now, when some subtle ailment had begun to sap it. The
change was less in his muscular strength than in his nerves and his
mental vigor. He found himself growing peculiarly irritable; his
failures excited spasms of blind fury which left him weak and spent;
he began to suffer the depressing tortures of insomnia. At times the
nerves in his face and neck twitched unaccountably, and this
distressing affection spread.

These symptoms had first manifested themselves after his
unmerciful drubbing at the hands of Dan Appleton: but they were not
the result of any injury; they were due to some deeper cause. When he
had recovered his senses, after the departure of Dan and Natalie, he
had fallen into a paroxysm of anger that lasted for days; he had raged
and stormed like a madman, for, to say nothing of other humiliations,
he prided himself extravagantly on his physical prowess. While the
marks of the rough treatment he had suffered were disappearing he
remained indoors, plunged in such abysmal fury that neither Gloria nor
the fawning Denny dared approach him. The very force of his emotions
had permanently disturbed his poise, or perhaps effected some obscure
lesion in his brain. Even when he showed himself again in public he
was still abnormally choleric. His fits of passion became almost
apoplectic in their violence; they caused his associates to shun him
as a man dangerous, and in his calmer moments he thought of them with
alarm. He had tried to regain his nervous control, but without
success, and his wife's anxiety only chafed him further. Gradually he
lost his mental buoyancy, and for the first time in his life he really
yielded to pessimism. He found he could no longer attack a problem
with his accustomed certainty of conquering it, but was haunted by a
foreboding of inevitable failure. All in all, when he reached the
States on his critical mission he knew that he was far from being his
old self, and he had deteriorated more than he knew.

A week or two of disappointments should have shown him the
futility of further effort; at any other time it would have set him
to putting his house in order for the final crash, but now it merely
enraged him. He redoubled his activity, launching a new campaign of
publicity so extravagant and ill-timed as to repel the assistance he
needed. He had lost his finesse; his nicely adjusted financial sense
had gone.

The outcome was not long delayed; it came in the form of a
newspaper despatch to the effect that his Cortez bank had suspended
payment because of a run started by the dissatisfied employees of the
railroad. Through Gordon's flamboyant advertising his enterprises were
so well known by this time that the story was featured despite his
efforts to kill it. His frantic cables to Cortez for a denial only
brought assurances that the report was true and that conditions would
not mend unless a shipment of currency was immediately forthcoming.

Harassed by reporters, driven on by the need for a show of action,
he set out to raise the money, but the support he had hoped for failed
him when it transpired that his bank's assets consisted mainly of real
estate at boom prices and stock in his various companies which had
been inflated to the bursting-point. Days passed, a week or more; then
he was compelled to relinquish his option on the steamship line he had
partly purchased, and to sacrifice all that had been paid in on the
enterprise. This, too, made a big story for the newspapers, for it
punctured one of the most imposing corporations in the famous "Gordon
System." It likewise threatened to involve the others in the general
crash. Hope Consolidated, indeed, still remained, and Gordon's
declaration that the value of its shares was more than sufficient to
protect his bank met with some credence until, swift upon the heels of
the other disasters, came an application for a receiver by the
stock-holders, coupled with the promise of a rigorous investigation
into his various financial manipulations. Then at last Gordon
acknowledged defeat.

Ruin had come swiftly; the diversity of his interests made his
situation the more hopeless, for so cunningly had he interlocked one
with another that to separate them promised to be an endless task.

He still kept up a fairly successful pretense of confidence, and
publicly he promised to bring order out of chaos, but in secret he
gave way to the blackest despair. Heretofore, failure had never
affected him deeply, for he had always managed to escape with
advantage to his pocket and without serious damage to his prestige,
but out of the present difficulty he could find no way. His office
force stopped work, frightened at his bearing; the bellboys of his
hotel brought to the desk tales of such maniacal violence that lie was
requested to move.

At last the citizens of Cortez, who up to this time had been like
putty in his fingers, realized their betrayal and turned against him.
Creditors attached the railway property, certain violent- tempered men
prayed openly and earnestly to their gods for his return to Alaska in
order that they might exact satisfaction in frontier fashion. Eastern
investors in Hope Consolidated appeared in Seattle: there was talk of
criminal procedure.

Bewildered as he was, half crazed with anxiety, Gordon knew that
the avalanche had not only wrecked his fortunes, but was bearing him
swiftly toward the penitentiary. Its gates yawned to welcome him, and
he felt a chilling terror such as he had never known.

One evening as Captain Johnny Brennan stood on the dock
superintending the final loading of a cargo for the S. R. N. he was
accosted by a tall, nervous man with shifting eyes and twitching lips.
It was hard to recognize in this pitiable shaken creature the once
resplendent Gordon, who had bent the whole northland to his ends. Some
tantalizing demons inside the man's frame were jerking at his sinews.
Fear was in his roving glance; he stammered; he plucked at the little
captain's sleeve like a frightened woman. The open-hearted Irishman
was touched.

"Yes," said Johnny, after listening for a time. "I'll take you
with me, and they won't catch you, either."

"Eh? Stock? Well, there's money in stocks, big money, if you know
how to handle them." The promoter's wandering eye shifted to the line
of stevedores trundling their trucks into the hold, then up to the
crane with its straining burden of bridge material. Every package was
stenciled with his rival's name, but he exclaimed:

"Bravo, Captain! We'll be up to the summit by Christmas. 'No
graft! No incompetence! The utmost publicity in corporate
affairs!'—that's our platform. We're destined for a glorious
success. Glorious success!"

"Go aboard and lie down," Brennan said, gently. "You need a good
sleep." Then, calling a steward, he ordered, "Show Mr. Gordon to my
cabin and give him what he wants."

He watched the tall figure stumble up the gang-plank, and shook
his head:

"'The utmost publicity,' is it? Well, it's you that's getting it
now. And to think that you're the man with the mines and the
railroads and the widow! I'm afraid you'll be in irons when she sees
you, but—that's as good a finish as you deserve, after all."

The building of the Salmon River bridge will not soon be forgotten
by engineers and men of science. But, while the technical features of
the undertaking are familiar to a few, the general public knows little
about how the work was actually done; and since the building of the
bridge was the pivotal point in Murray O'Neil's career, it may be well
to describe in some detail its various phases—the steps which led up
to that day when the Salmon burst her bonds and put the result of all
his planning and labor to the final test.

Nowhere else in the history of bridge-building had such conditions
been encountered; nowhere on earth had work of this character been
attended with greater hazards; never had circumstances created a
situation of more dramatic interest. By many the whole venture was
regarded as a reckless gamble; for more than a million dollars had
been risked on the chance not alone that O'Neil could build supports
which the ice could not demolish, but that he could build them under
the most serious difficulties in record-breaking time. Far more than
the mere cost of the structure hinged upon his success: failure would
mean that his whole investment up to that point would be wiped out, to
say nothing of the twenty-million-dollar project of a trunk-line up
the valley of the Salmon.

Had the Government permitted the Kyak coal-fields to be opened up,
the lower reaches of the S. R. N. would have had a value, but all
activity in that region had been throttled, and the policy of delay
and indecision at headquarters promised no relief.

Careful as had been the plans, exhaustive and painstaking as had
been the preparations, the bridge-builders met with unpreventable
delays, disappointments, and disasters; for man is but a feeble
creature whose brain tires and whose dreams are brittle. It is with
these hindrances and accidents and with their effect upon the outcome
that we have to deal.

Of course, the greatest handicap, the one ever-present obstacle,
was the cold, and this made itself most troublesome in the sinking of
the caissons and the building of the concrete piers. It was necessary,
for instance, to house in all cement work, and to raise the
temperature not only of the air surrounding it, but of the materials
themselves before they were mixed and laid. Huge wind-breaks had to be
built to protect the outside men from the gales that scoured the
river-bed, and these were forever blowing down or suffering damage
from the hurricanes. All this, however, had been anticipated: it was
but the normal condition of work in the northland. And it was not
until the middle of winter, shortly after Eliza's and Natalie's visit
to the front, that an unexpected danger threatened, a danger more
appalling than any upon which O'Neil and his assistants had reckoned.

In laying his plans Parker had proceeded upon the assumption that,
once the cold had gripped the glaciers, they would remain motionless
until spring. All available evidence went to prove the correctness of
this supposition, but Alaska is a land of surprises, of contrasts, of
contradictions: study of its phenomena is too recent to make
practicable the laying down of hard and fast rules. In the midst of a
season of cruelly low temperatures there came a thaw, unprecedented,
inexplicable. A tremendous warm breath from the Pacific rolled
northward, bathing the frozen plains and mountain ranges. Blizzards
turned to rains and weeping fogs, the dry and shifting snow-fields
melted, water ran in the courses. Winter loosed its hold; its mantle
slipped. Nothing like this had ever been known or imagined. It was
impossible! It was as if the unhallowed region were bent upon living
up to its evil reputation. In a short time the loosened waters that
trickled through the sleeping ice-fields greased the foundations upon
which they lay. Jackson Glacier roused itself, then began to glide
forward like a ship upon its ways. First there came the usual
premonitory explosions—the sound of subterranean blasts as the ice
cracked, gave way, and shifted to the weight above; echoes filled the
sodden valley with memories of the summer months. It was as if the
seasons had changed, as if the zodiacal procession had been thrown
into confusion. The frozen surface of the Salmon was inundated; water
four feet deep in some places ran over it.

The general wonder at this occurrence changed to consternation
when it was seen that the glacier acted like a battering-ram of
stupendous size, buckling the river ice in front of it as if ice were
made of paper. That seven-foot armor was crushed, broken into a
thousand fragments, which threatened to choke the stream. A half-mile
below the bridge site the Salmon was pinched as if between two jaws;
its smooth surface was rapidly turned into an indescribable jumble of
up-ended cakes.

When a fortnight had passed O'Neil began to fear that this
movement would go on until the channel had been closed as by a huge
sliding door. In that case the rising waters would quickly wipe out
all traces of his work. Such a crumpling and shifting of the ice had
never occurred before—at least, not within fifty years, as the alder
and cottonwood growth on the east bank showed; but nothing seemed
impossible, no prank too grimly grotesque for Nature to play in this
solitude. O'Neil felt that his own ingenuity was quite unequal to the
task of combating this peril. Set against forces so tremendous and
arbitrary human invention seemed dwarfed to a pitiable insignificance.

Day after day he watched the progress of that white palisade; day
after day he scanned the heavens for a sign of change, for out of the
sky alone could come his deliverance. Hourly tests were made at the
bridge site, lest the ice should give way before the pressure from
below and by moving up-stream destroy the intricate pattern of piling
which was being driven to support the steelwork. But day after day the
snows continued to melt and the rain to fall. Two rivers were now
boiling past the camp, one hidden deep, the other a shallow torrent
which ran upon a bed of ice. The valley was rent by the sounds of the
glacier's snail- like progress.

Then, without apparent cause, the seasons fell into order again,
the mercury dropped, the surface-water disappeared, the country was
sheeted with a glittering crust over which men walked, leaving no
trace of footprints. Jackson became silent: once again the wind blew
cold from out of the funnel-mouth and the bridge- builders threshed
their arms to start their blood. But the glacier face had advanced
four hundred feet from its position in August; it had narrowed the
Salmon by fully one-half its width.

Fortunately, the bridge had suffered no damage as yet, and no one
foresaw the effect which these altered conditions were to have.

The actual erection of steelwork was impossible during the coldest
months; Parker had planned only to rush the piers, abutments, and
false-work to completion so that he could take advantage of the mild
spring weather preceding the break-up. The execution of this plan was
in itself an unparalleled undertaking, making it necessary to hire
double crews of picked men. Yet, as the weeks wore into months the
intricate details were wrought out one by one, and preparations were
completed for the great race.

Late in March Dan Appleton went to the front, taking with him his
wife and his sister, for whom O'Neil had thoughtfully prepared
suitable living-quarters. The girls were as hungry as Dan to have a
part in the deciding struggle, or at least to see it close at hand,
for the spirit of those engaged in the work had entered them also.
Life at Omar of late had been rather uneventful, and they looked
forward with pleasure to a renewal of those companionable relations
which had made the summer months so, full of interest and delight. But
they were disappointed. Life at the end of the line they found to be a
very grim, a very earnest, and in some respects an extremely
disagreeable affair: the feverish, unceasing activity of their friends
left no time for companionship or recreation of any sort. More and
more they, too, came to feel the sense of haste and strain pervading
the whole army of workers, the weight of responsibility that bore upon
the commander.

Dan became almost a stranger to them, and when they saw him he was
obsessed by vital issues. Mellen was gruff and irritable: Parker in
his preoccupation ignored everything but his duties. Of all their
former comrades O'Neil alone seemed aware of their presence. But
behind his smile they saw the lurking worries; in his eyes was an
abstraction they could not penetrate, in his bearing the fatigue of a
man tried to the breaking-point.

To Eliza there was a certain joy merely in being near the man she
loved, even though she could not help being hurt by his apparent
indifference. The long weeks without sight of him had deepened her
feeling, and she had turned for relief to the writing of her book—the
natural outlet for her repressed emotions. Into its pages she had
poured all her passion, all her yearning, and she had written with an
intimate understanding of O'Neil's ambitions and aims which later gave
the story its unique success as an epic of financial romance.

Hers was a nature which could not be content with idleness. She
took up the work that she and Natalie had begun, devoting herself
unobtrusively yet effectively to making O'Neil comfortable. It was a
labor of love, done with no expectation of reward; it thrilled her,
filling her with mingled sadness and satisfaction. But if Murray
noticed the improvement in his surroundings, which she sometimes
doubted, he evidently attributed it to a sudden access of zeal on the
part of Ben, for he made no comment. Whether or not she wished him to
see and understand she could hardly tell. Somehow his unobservant,
masculine acceptance of things better and worse appealed to the woman
in her. She slipped into O'Neil's quarters during his absence, and
slipped out again quietly; she learned to know his ways, his
peculiarities; she found herself caressing and talking to his personal
belongings as if they could hear and understand. She conducted long
conversations with the objects on his bureau. One morning Ben entered
unexpectedly to surprise her in the act of kissing Murray's
shaving-mirror as if it still preserved the image of its owner's face,
after which she banished the cook-boy utterly and performed his duties
with her own hands.

Of course, discovery was inevitable. At last O'Neil stumbled in
upon her in the midst of her task, and, questioning her, read the
truth from her blushes and her incoherent attempts at explanation.

"So! You're the one who has been doing this!" he exclaimed, in
frank astonishment. "And I've been tipping Benny for his
thoughtfulness all this time! The rascal has made enough to retire
rich."

"He seemed not to understand his duties very well, so I took
charge. But you had no business to catch me!" The flush died from
Eliza's cheeks, and she faced him with thoroughly feminine
indignation.

"I can't let you go on with this," said Murray. "_I_ ought to be
doing something for YOU."

But the girl flared up defiantly. "I love it. I'll do it, no
matter if you lock me out. I'm not on the pay-roll, you know, so you
have no authority over me—none at all!"

His eyes roved around the room, and for the first time he fully
took in the changes her hands had wrought.

"My dear child, it's very nice to be spoiled this way and have
everything neat and clean, but—it embarrasses me dreadfully to have
you saddled with the sordid work—"

"It isn't sordid, and—what brought you home at this hour,
anyhow?" she demanded.

O'Neil's smile gave place to an anxious frown.

"The ice is rising, and—"

"Rising?"

"Yes. Our old enemy Jackson Glacier is causing us trouble again.
That jam of broken ice in front of it is backing up the water—
there's more running now, and the ice is lifting. It's lifting the
false-work with it, pulling the piles out of the river-bottom like
splinters out of a sore hand."

"That's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. It threatens to throw everything out of
alignment and prevent us from laying the steel if we don't check it."

"Check it!" cried Eliza. "How can you check a thing like that?"

"Easily enough, if we can spare the hands—by cutting away the ice
where it is frozen to the piles, so that it won't lift them with it.
The trouble is to get men enough—you see, the ice is nine feet thick
now. I've set every man to work with axes and chisels and
steam-points, and I came up to telephone Slater for more help. We'll
have to work fast, night and day."

"There's nobody left in Omar," Eliza said, quickly.

"I know. Tom's going to gather all he can at Cortez and Hope and
rush them out here. Our task is to keep the ice cut away until help
arrives."

"I suppose it's too late in the season to repair any serious
damage?"

"Exactly. If you care to go back with me you can see what we're
doing." As they set off for the bridge site Murray looked down at
Eliza, striding man-like beside him, with something of affectionate
appreciation in his eyes, and said humbly: "It was careless of me not
to see what you have been doing for me all this time. My only excuse
is that I've been driven half mad with other things. I—haven't time
to think of myself."

"All housekeepers have a thankless task," laughed Eliza.

When they reached the river-bank she saw everything apparently
just as when she had last seen it. "Why, it's not as bad as I
imagined!" she exclaimed. "I thought I'd find everything going to
smash."

"Oh, there's nothing spectacular about it. There seldom is about
serious mishaps in this business. The ice has risen only an inch or
more so far, but the very slowness and sureness of it is what's
alarming. It shows that the water is backing up, and as the flow
increases the rise of the ice will quicken. If it starts to move up or
down stream, we're lost."

There was ample evidence that the menace was thoroughly
understood, for the whole day shift was toiling at the ice, chopping
it, thawing it, shoveling it away, although its tremendous thickness
made their efforts seem puerile. Everywhere there was manifested a
frantic haste, a grim, strained eagerness that was full of ominous
meaning.

All that day Eliza watched the unequal struggle, and in the
evening Dan brought her reports that were far from reassuring. The
relentless movement showed no sign of ceasing. When she retired that
night she sought ease from her anxiety in a prayer that was half a
petition for O'Neil's success and half an exceedingly full and frank
confession of her love for him. Outside, beneath the glare of torches
and hastily strung incandescents, a weary army toiled stubbornly,
digging, gouging, chopping at the foot of the towering wall of timbers
which stretched across the Salmon. In the north the aurora borealis
played brilliantly as if to light a council of the gods.

On the following day "Happy Tom" arrived with fifty men.

"I got the last mother's son I could find," he explained, as he
warmed himself at O'Neil's stove.

"Nothing but echoes in his dome. The town's as empty as his bonnet
too, and the streets are full of snow. It's a sight!"

"Tell me about Mrs. Gordon." "She's quite a person," said Slater,
slowly. "She surprised me. She's there, alone with him and a
watchman. She does all the work, even to LUGGING in the wood and
coal—he's too busy to help—but she won't leave him. She told me
that Dan and Natalie wanted her to come over here, but she couldn't
bring herself to do it or to let them assist in any way. Gordon spends
all his time at his desk, promoting, writing ads and prospectuses.
He's got a grand scheme. He's found that 'Hope Consolidated' is full
of rich ore, but the trouble is in getting it out; so he's working on
a new process of extraction. It's a wonderful process—you'd never
guess what it is. He SMOKES it out! He says all he needs is plenty of
smoke. That bothered him until he hit on the idea of burning feathers.
Now he's planning to raise ducks, because they've got so much down.
Isn't that the limit? She'll have to fit him into a padded cell sooner
or later."

"Poor devil!" said O'Neil. "I'm sorry. He had an unusual mind."

Slater sniffed. "I think it's pretty soft for him, myself. He's
made better than a stand-off—he lost his memory, but he saved his
skin. It's funny how some men can't fall: if they slip on a
banana-peel somebody shoves a cushion under 'em before they 'light.
_I_ never got the best of anything. If I dropped asleep in church my
wife would divorce me and I'd go to the electric chair. Gordon robs
widows and orphans, right and left, then ends up with a loving woman
to take care of him in his old age. Why, if I even robbed a blind
puppy of a biscuit I'd leave a thumb- print on his ear, or the dog's
mother would turn out to be a bloodhound. Anyhow, I'd spend MY
declining years nestled up to a rock-pile, with a mallet in my mit,
and a low-browed gentleman scowling at me from the top of a wall. He'd
lean on his shotgun and say, 'Hurry up, Fatty; it's getting late and
there's a ton of oakum to pick.' It just goes to show that some of us
is born behind the game and never get even, while others, like Gordon,
quit winner no matter how much they lose." Having relieved himself of
this fervid homily, "Happy Tom" unrolled a package of gum and thrust
three sticks into his mouth. "Speaking of bad luck," he continued,
"when are you going to get married, Murray?"

O'Neil started. "Why—never. It isn't the same kind of proposition
as building a bridge, you know. There's a little matter of youth and
good looks that counts considerably in the marriage business. No woman
would have an old chap like me."

Slater took a mournful inventory of his chief's person, then said
doubtfully: "You MIGHT put it over, Murray. I ain't strictly
handsome, myself, but I did."

As O'Neil slipped into his fur coat, after the fat man had
slouched out, he caught sight of himself in the glass of his bureau
and paused. He leaned forward and studied the care-worn countenance
that peered forth at him, then shook his head. He saw that the hair
was growing grayer; that the face was very plain, and—yes,
unquestionably, it was no longer youthful. Of course, he didn't feel
old, but the evidence that he was so admitted of no disproof, and it
was evidence of a sort which no woman could disregard. He turned from
the glass with a qualm of disgust at his weakness in allowing himself
to be influenced in the slightest by Tom's suggestion.

For a week the ice rose slowly, a foot a day, and in spite of the
greatest watchfulness it took the false-work with it here and there.
But concentrated effort at the critical points saved the structure
from serious injury. Then the jam in front of Jackson Glacier went
out, at least in part, and the ice began to fall. Down it settled,
smoothly, swiftly, until it rested once more upon the shores. It was
still as firm as in midwinter, and showed no sign of breaking; nor had
it moved down-stream a hair's breadth. O'Neil gathered his forces for
the final onslaught.

On April 5th the last of the steel for Span Number One reached the
front, and erection was begun. The men fell to with a vim and an
enthusiasm impossible to describe. With incredible rapidity the heavy
sections were laid in place; the riveters began their metallic song;
the towering three bent traveler ran smoothly on its track, and under
it grew a web work of metal, braced and reinforced to withstand, in
addition to ordinary strains, the pressure of a hundred-mile-an-hour
wind. To those who looked on, the structure appeared to build itself,
like some dream edifice; it seemed a miracle that human hands could
work that stubborn metal so swiftly and with so little effort. But
every piece had been cut and fitted carefully, then checked and placed
where it was accessible.

Now that winter had broken, spring came with a rush. The snows
began to shrink and the drifts to settle. The air grew balmier with
every day; the drip from eaves was answered by the gurgling laughter
of hidden waters. Here and there the boldest mountainsides began to
show, and the tops of alder thickets thrust themselves into sight.
Where wood or metal caught the sun- rays the snow retreated; pools of
ice-water began to form at noon.

The days were long, too, and no frozen winds charged out of the
north. As the daylight lengthened, so did the working-hours of the
toilers.

On April 18th the span was completed. In thirteen days Mellen's
crew had laid four hundred feet of the heaviest steel ever used in a
bridge of this type. But there was no halt; the material for the
second section had been assembled, meanwhile, and the traveler began
to swing it into place.

The din was unceasing; the clash of riveters, the creak and rattle
of hoists, the shouts of men mingled in a persistent, ear- splitting
clamor; and foot by foot the girders reached out toward the second
monolith which rose from the river-bed. The well- adjusted human
machine was running smoothly; every man knew his place and the duties
that went with it; the hands of each worker were capable and skilled.
But now the hillsides were growing bare, rills gashed the sloping
snow-fields, the upper gullies began to rumble to
avalanches—forerunners of the process that would strip the earth of
snow and ice and free the river in all its fury. In six days three
hundred feet more of steel had been bolted fast to the complete
section, and Span Two was in place. But the surface of the Salmon was
no longer white and pure; it was dirty and discolored now, for the
debris which had collected during the past winter was exposing itself.
The icy covering was partially inundated also; shallow ponds formed
upon it and were rippled by the south breeze. Running waters on every
side sang a menace to the workers.

Then progress ceased abruptly. It became known that a part of the
material for the third span had gone astray in its long journey
across the continent. There had been a delay at the Pittsburg mills,
then a blockade in the Sierras; O'Neil was in Omar at the end of the
cable straining every nerve to have the shipment rushed through.
Mellen brooded over his uncompleted work: Parker studied the dripping
hills and measured the melting snows. He still smiled; but he showed
his anxiety in a constant nervous unrest, and he could not sleep.

At length news came that Johnny Brennan had the steel aboard his
ship and had sailed. A record run was predicted, but meanwhile the
south wind brought havoc on its breath. The sun shone hotly into the
valley of the Salmon, and instead of warmth it brought a chill to the
hearts of those who watched and waited.

Twelve endless, idle days crawled by. Winter no longer gave
battle; she was routed, and in her mad retreat she threatened to
overwhelm O'Neil's fortunes.

On May 6th the needed bridge members were assembled, and the
erection of Span Three began. The original plan had been to build
this section on the cantilever principle, so as to gain independence
of the river ice, but to do so would have meant slow work and much
delay—an expenditure of time which the terms of the option made
impossible. Arrangements had been made, therefore, to lay it on
false-work as the other spans had been laid, risking everything upon
the weather.

As a matter of precaution the southern half of the span was
connected to the completed portion; but before the connection could
be fully made the remainder of the jam in front of Jackson Glacier,
which had caused so much trouble heretofore, went out suddenly, and
the river ice moved down-stream about a foot, carrying with it the
whole intricate system of supporting timbers beneath the uncompleted
span. Hasty measurements showed that the north end of the steel then
on the false-work was thirteen inches out of line.

It was Mr. Blaine who brought the tidings of this last calamity to
Eliza Appleton. From his evident anxiety she gathered that the matter
was of graver consequence than she could well understand.

Blaine smiled in spite of himself. "You don't understand. It's as
bad as thirteen feet, for the work can't go on until everything is in
perfect alignment. That whole forest of piles must be straightened."

"Impossible!" she gasped. "Why, there are thousands of them."

He shook his head, still smiling doubtfully. "Nothing is
impossible to Mellen and Parker. They've begun clearing away the ice
on the up-stream side and driving new anchor-piles above. They're
going to fit tackle to them and yank the whole thing up- stream. I
never heard of such a thing, but there's no time to do anything else."
He cast a worried look at the smiling sky. "I wonder what will happen
next. This is getting on my nerves."

Out on the river swift work was going on. Steam from every
available boiler was carried across the ice in feed-pipes, the night
shift had been roused from sleep, and every available man was busied
in relieving the pressure. Pile-drivers hammered long timbers into the
river-bed above the threatened point, hydraulic jacks were put in
place, and steel cables were run to drum and pulley. The men worked
sometimes knee-deep in ice-water; but they did not walk, they ran. In
an incredibly short time the preparations were completed, a strain was
put upon the tackle, and when night came the massive false-work had
been pulled back into line and the traveler was once more swinging
steel into place. It was a magnificent feat, yet not one of those
concerned in it could feel confident that the work had not been done
in vain; for the time was growing terribly short, and, although the
ice seemed solid, it was rotting fast.

After the southern half of the span had been completed the warmth
increased rapidly, therefore the steel crew lengthened its hours. The
men worked from seven o'clock in the morning until eleven o'clock at
night.

On the 13th, without warning of any sort, Garfield Glacier began
moving forward. It had lain inactive even during the midwinter thaw
which had started its smaller brother, but that warm spell had
evidently had its effect upon the giant, for now he shook off his
lethargy and awoke. He stirred, gradually at first and without sound,
as if bent upon surprising the interlopers; then his speed increased.
As the glacier advanced it thrust the nine- foot blanket of lake ice
ahead of it, and this in turn crowded the river ice down upon the
bridge. The movement at the camp site on the first day was only two
inches, but that was sufficiently serious.

The onset of Garfield at this time was, of course, unexpected; for
no forward motion had ever been reported prior to the spring break-up.
The action of the ice heretofore had been alarming; but now
consternation spread, a panic swept the ranks of the builders, for
this was no short-lived phenomenon, this was the annual march of the
glacier itself which promised to continue indefinitely. A tremendous
cutting-edge, nine feet in thickness, like the blade of a carpenter's
plane, was being driven against the bridge by an irresistible force.

Once again the endless thawing and chopping and gouging of ice
began, but the more rapidly the encroaching edge was cut away the
more swiftly did it bear down. The huge mass began to rumble; it
"calved," it split, it detonated, and, having finally loosened itself
from its bed, it acquired increased momentum. As the men with chisels
and steam-points became exhausted others took their places, but the
structural gang clung to its perch above, augmenting the din of
riveters and the groaning of blocks and tackle. Among the able-bodied
men sleep now was out of the question, for the ice gained in spite of
every effort. It was too late to remove the steel in the uncompleted
span to a place of safety, for that would have required more time than
to bridge the remaining gap.

Piling began to buckle and bend before that irresistible push; the
whole nicely balanced mass of metal was in danger of being unseated.
Mellen cursed the heavens in a black fury; Parker smiled through white
lips; O'Neil ground his teeth and spurred his men on.

This feverish haste brought its penalty. On the evening of the
14th, when the span was more than three-quarters finished, a lower
chord section fouled as it was lifted, and two loading- beams at the
top of the traveler snapped.

On that day victory had been in sight; the driving of the last
bolt had been but a question of hours, a race with the sliding ice.
But with the hoisting apparatus out of use work halted. Swiftly,
desperately, without loss of a moment's time, repairs began. No
regrets were voiced, no effort was made to place the blame, for that
would have caused delay, and every minute counted. Eleven hours later
the broken beams were replaced, and erection had recommenced.

But now for those above there was danger to life and limb. During
the pause the ice had gained, and no effort could relieve the
false-work of its strain. All knew that if it gave way the workmen
would be caught in a chaos of collapsing wood and steel.

From the morning of May 14th until midnight of the 16th the iron-
workers clung to their tasks. They dropped their tools and ran to
their meals; they gulped their food and fled back to their posts. The
weaker ones gave out and staggered away, cursed and taunted by their
companions. They were rough fellows, and in their deep- throated
profanity was a prayer.

The strong ones struggled on, blind with weariness, but upheld by
that desperate, unthinking courage that animates a bayonet charge. It
seemed that every moment must see the beginning of that slow work of
demolition which would send them all scurrying to safety; but hour
after hour the piling continued to hold and the fingers of steel to
reach out, foot by foot, for the concrete pier which was their goal.

At midnight of the 16th the last rivet was driven; but the ice had
gained to such an extent that the lower chord was buckled down-stream
about eight inches, and the distance was growing steadily. Quickly the
traveler was shifted to the false-work beyond the pier, and the men
under Mellen's direction fell to splitting out the blocking.

As the supports were chopped away the mass began to crush the last
few wedges; there was a great snapping and rending of wood; and some
one, strained to the breaking-point, shouted:

"Look out! There she goes!"

A cry of terror arose, the men fled, trampling one another in
their panic. But Mellen charged them like a wild man, firing curses
and orders at them until they rallied. The remaining supports were
removed; the fifteen hundred tons of metal settled into place and
rested securely on its foundations.

O'Neil was the last man ashore. As he walked the completed span
from Pier Three the barricade of piling beneath him was bending and
tearing; but he issued no orders to remove it, for the river was doing
that. In the general haste pile-drivers, hoists, boilers, and various
odds and ends of machinery and material had been left where they
stood. They were being inundated now; many of them were all but
submerged. There was no possibility of saving them at present, for the
men were half dead from exhaustion.

As he lurched up the muddy, uneven street to his quarters Murray
felt his fatigue like a heavy burden, for he had been sixty hours
without sleep. He saw Slater and Appleton and the rest of his "boys";
he saw Natalie and Eliza, but he was too tired to speak to them, or to
grasp what they said. He heard the workmen cheering Mellen and Parker
and himself. It was very foolish, he thought, to cheer, since the
river had so nearly triumphed and the final test was yet to come.

He fell upon his bed, clothed as he was; an hour later the false-
work beneath Span Three collapsed.

Although the bridge was not yet finished, the most critical point
of its construction had been passed, for the fourth and final portion
would be built over shallow water, and no great difficulties were to
be expected even though the ice went out before the work was finished.
But Murray had made his promise and his boast to complete the
structure within a stated time, and he was determined to live up to
the very letter of his agreement with the Trust. As to the result of
the break-up, he had no fear whatever.

For once Nature aided him: she seemed to smile as if in approval
of his steadfastness. The movement of the channel ice became
irregular, spasmodic, but it remained firm until the last span had
been put in place.

Of this dramatic struggle Eliza Appleton had watched every phase
with intensest interest; but when at last she knew that the battle
was won she experienced a peculiar revulsion of feeling. So long as
O'Neil had been working against odds, with the prospect of ruin and
failure forever imminent, she had felt an almost painful sympathy, but
now that he had conquered she felt timid about congratulating him. He
was no longer to be pitied and helped; he had attained his goal and
the fame he longed for. His success would inevitably take him out of
her life. She was very sorry that he needed her no longer.

She did not watch the last bridge-member swung, but went to her
room, and tried to face the future. Spring was here, her book was
finished, there was the need to take up her life again.

She was surprised when Murray came to find her.

"I missed you, Eliza," he said. "The others are all down at the
river-bank. I want you to congratulate me."

She saw, with a jealous twinge, that exultation over his victory
had overcome his weariness, that his face was alight with a fire she
had never before seen. He seemed young, vigorous, and masterful once
more.

"Of course," he went on, "the credit belongs to Parker, who worked
the bridge out in each detail—he's marvelous—and to Mellen, who
actually built it, but I helped a little. Praise to me means praise to
them."

"It is all over now, isn't it?"

"Practically. Blaine has cabled New York that we've won. Strictly
speaking, we haven't as yet, for there's still the break-up to face;
but the bridge will come through it without a scratch. The ice may go
out any minute now, and after that I can rest." He smiled at her
gladly. "It will feel good to get rid of all this responsibility,
won't it? I think you've suffered under it as much as I have."

A little wistfully she answered: "You're going to realize that
dream you told me about the day of the storm at Kyak. You have
conquered this great country—just as you dreamed."

He acquiesced eagerly, boyishly. "Yes. Whirring wheels, a current
of traffic, a broad highway of steel—that's the sort of monument I
want to leave."

"Sometime I'll come back and see it all completed and tell myself
that I had a little part in making it."

"Oh no! I'm going south with the spring flight—on the next boat,
perhaps."

His face fell; the exultant light gradually faded from his eyes.

"Why—I had no idea! Aren't you happy here?"

She nodded. "But I must try to make good in my work as you have in
yours."

He was looking at her sorrowfully, almost as if she had deserted
him. "That's too bad, but—I suppose you must go. Yes; this is no
place for you. I dare say other people need you to bring sunshine and
joy to them just as we old fellows do, but—I've never thought about
your leaving. It wouldn't be right to ask you to stay here among such
people as we are when you have so much ahead of you. Still, it will
leave a gap. Yes—it certainly will—leave a gap."

She longed desperately to tell him how willingly she would stay if
he only asked her, but the very thought shocked her into a deeper
reserve.

"I'm going East to sell my book," she said, stiffly. "You've given
me the climax of the story in this race with the seasons."

"Is it a—love story?" he asked.

Eliza flushed. "Yes. It's mostly love."

"You're not at all the girl I thought you when we first met.
You're very—different. I'm sure I won't recognize myself as the
hero. Who—or what is the girl in the story?"

"Well, she's just the kind of girl that would appeal to a person
like you. She's tall and dark and dashing, and—of course, she's
remarkably beautiful. She's very feminine, too."

"What's her name?"

Miss Appleton stammered: "Why—I—called her Violet—until I could
think of a better—"

"What's wrong with Violet? You couldn't think of a better name
than that. I'm fond of it."

"Oh, it's a good book-name, but for real life it's too—
delicate." Eliza felt with vexation that her face was burning. She
was sure he was laughing at her.

"Can't I read the manuscript?" he pleaded.

"Heavens! No! I—" She changed the subject abruptly. "I've left
word to be called the minute the ice starts to go out. I want to see
the last act of the drama."

When O'Neil left her he was vaguely perplexed, for something in
her bearing did not seem quite natural. He was forlorn, too, at the
prospect of losing her. He wondered if fathers suffered thus, or if a
lover could be more deeply pained at a parting than he. Somehow he
seemed to share the feelings of both.

Early on the following morning Eliza was awakened by a sound of
shouting outside her window. She lay half dazed for a moment or two,
until the significance of the uproar made itself apparent; then she
leaped from her bed.

Men were crying:

"There she goes!"

"She's going out!"

Doors were slamming, there was the rustle and scuff of flying
feet, and in the next room Dan was evidently throwing himself into
his clothes like a fireman. Eliza called to him, but he did not
answer; and the next moment he had fled, upsetting some article of
furniture in his haste. Drawing her curtains aside, the girl saw in
the brightening dawn men pouring down the street, dressing as they
went. They seemed half demented; they were yelling at one another, but
she could not gather from their words whether it was the ice which was
moving or—the bridge. The bridge! That possibility set her to
dressing with tremulous fingers, her heart sick with fear. She called
to Natalie, but scarcely recognized her own voice.

"I—don't know," came the muffled reply to her question. "It
sounds like something—terrible. I'm afraid Dan will fall in or— get
hurt." The confusion in the street was growing. "ELIZA!" Natalie's
voice was tragic.

"What is it, dear?"

"H—help me, quick!"

"How?"

"I can't find my other shoe."

But Eliza was sitting on the floor, lacing up her own stout boots,
and an instant later she followed her brother, pursued by a wail of
dismay from the adjoining chamber. Through the chill morning light she
hurried, asking many questions, but receiving no coherent reply from
the racing men; then after endless moments of suspense she saw with
relief that the massive superstructure of the bridge was still
standing. Above the shouting she heard another sound, indistinct but
insistent. It filled the air with a whispering movement; it was
punctuated at intervals by a dull rumbling and grinding. She found the
river-bank black with forms, but like a cat she wormed her way through
the crowd until the whole panorama lay before her.

The bridge stood as she had seen it on the yesterday—slender,
strong, superb in the simplicity of its splendid outline; but beneath
it and as far as her eyes could follow the river she saw, not the
solid spread of white to which she had become accustomed, but a moving
expanse of floes. At first the winter burden slipped past in huge
masses, acres in extent, but soon these began to be rent apart;
irregular black seams ran through them, opened, closed, and threw up
ridges of ice-shavings as they ground together. The floes were rubbing
against the banks, they came sliding out over the dry shore like
tremendous sheets of cardboard manipulated by unseen hands, and not
until their nine- foot edges were exposed to view did the mind grasp
the appalling significance of their movement. They swept down in
phalanxes upon the wedge-like ice-breakers which stood guard above the
bridge- piers, then they halted, separated, and the armored
cutting-edges sheared through them like blades.

A half-mile below, where the Salmon flung itself headlong against
the upper wing of Jackson Glacier, the floating ice was checked by
the narrowed passageway. There a jam was forming, and as the river
heaved and tore at its growing burden a spectacular struggle went on.
The sound of it came faintly but impressively to the watchers—a
grinding and crushing of bergs, a roar of escaping waters. Fragments
were up-ended, masses were rearing themselves edgewise into the air,
were overturning and collapsing. They were wedging themselves into
every conceivable angle, and the crowding procession from above was
adding to the barrier momentarily. As the passageway became blocked
the waters rose; the river piled itself up so swiftly that the eye
could note its rise along the banks.

But the attention of the crowd was divided between the jam and
something far out on the bridge itself. At first glance Eliza did not
comprehend; then she heard a man explaining:

"He was going out when we got here, and now he won't come back."

The girl gasped, for she recognized the distant figure of a man,
dwarfed to puny proportions by the bulk of the structure in the mazes
of which he stood. The man was O'Neil; he was perched upon one of the
girders near the center of the longest span, where he could watch the
attack upon the pyramidal ice-breakers beneath him.

"He's a fool," said some one at Eliza's back. "That jam is getting
bigger."

"He'd better let the damned bridge take care of itself."

She turned and began to force her way through the press of people
between her and the south abutment. She arrived there, disheveled and
panting, to find Slater, Mellen, and Parker standing in the approach.
In front of them extended the long skeleton tunnel into which Murray
had gone.

"Mr. O'Neil is out there!" she cried to Tom.

Slater turned and, reading the tragic appeal in her face, said
reassuringly:

Mellen was staring at the jam below, over which the Salmon was
hurling a flood of ice and foaming waters. The stream was swelling
and rising steadily; already it had nearly reached the level of the
timberline on the left bank; the blockade was extending up-stream
almost to the bridge itself. Mellen said something to Parker, who
shook his head silently.

Dan Appleton shouldered his way out of the crowd, with Natalie at
his heels. She had dressed herself in haste: her hair was loose, her
jacket was buttoned awry; on one foot was a shoe, on the other a
bedroom slipper muddy and sodden. Her dark eyes were big with
excitement.

"Why don't you make Murray come in?" Dan demanded sharply.

"He won't do it," muttered Slater.

"The jam is growing. Nobody knows what'll happen if it holds much
longer. If the bridge should go—"

From the ranks of the workmen came a bellow of triumph, as an
unusually heavy ice-floe was swept against the breakers and rent
asunder. The tumult of the imprisoned waters below was growing louder
every moment: across the lake came a stentorian rumble as a huge mass
was loosened from the front of Garfield. The channel of the Salmon
where the onlookers stood was a heaving, churning caldron over which
the slim bridge flung itself defiantly.

Eliza plucked at her brother's sleeve imploringly, and he saw her
for the first time.

"Hello, Sis," he cried. "How did you get here?"

"Is he in—danger, Danny?"

"Yes—no! Mellen says it's all right, so it must be, but—that
dam—"

At that moment Natalie began to sob hysterically, and Dan turned
his attention to her.

But his sister was not of the hysterical kind. Seizing Tom Slater
by the arm, she tried to shake him, demanding fiercely:

"Suppose the jam doesn't give way! What will happen?" "Happy Tom"
stared at her uncomprehendingly. Her voice was shrill and insistent.
"Suppose the water rises higher. Won't the ice sweep down on the
bridge itself? Won't it wreck everything if it goes out suddenly? Tell
me—"

"It can't hold. Mellen says so." Slater, like the others, found it
impossible to keep his eyes from the river where those immeasurable
forces were at play; then in his peculiar irascible manner he
complained: "I told 'em we was crazy to try this. It ain't a white
man's country; it ain't a safe place for a bridge. There's just one
God-awful thing after another—" He broke into a shout, for Eliza had
slipped past him and was speeding like a shadow out across the
irregularly spaced ties upon which the bridge track was laid.

Mellen whirled at the cry and made after her, but he might as well
have tried to catch the wind. As she ran she heard her brother shout
in sudden alarm and Natalie's voice raised in entreaty, but she sped
on under an impulse as irresistible as panic fear. Down through the
openings beneath her feet she saw, as in a nightmare, the sweeping
flood, burdened with plunging ice chunks and flecked with foam. She
seemed to be suspended above it; yet she was running at reckless
speed, dimly aware of the consequences of a misjudged footstep, but
fearful only of being overtaken. Suddenly she hated her companions;
her mind was in a furious revolt at their cowardice, their indecision,
or whatever it was that held them like a group of wooden figures safe
on shore while the man whose life was worth all theirs put together
exposed himself to needless peril. That he was really in danger she
felt sure. She knew that Murray was apt to lose himself in his dreams;
perhaps some visionary mood had blinded him to the menace of that
mounting ice-ridge it front of the glacier, or had he madly chosen to
stand or fall with this structure that meant so much to him? She would
make him yield to her own terror, drag him ashore, if necessary, with
her own hands.

She stumbled, but saved herself from a fall, then gathered her
skirts more closely and rushed on, measuring with instinctive nicety
the length of every stride. It was not an easy path over which she
dashed, for the ties were unevenly spaced; gaping apertures gave
terrible glimpses of the river below, and across these ghastly abysses
she had to leap.

The hoarse bursts of shouting from the shore ceased as the workmen
beheld her flitting out along the steel causeway. They watched her in
dumb amazement.

All at once O'Neil saw her and hurried to meet her.

"Eliza!" he cried. "Be careful! What possessed you to do this?"

"Come away," she gasped. "It's dangerous. The jam—Look!" She
pointed down the channel.

He shook his head impatiently.

"Yes!" she pleaded. "Yes! Please! They wouldn't come to warn you
—they tried to stop me. You must go ashore." The frightened entreaty
in her clear, wide-open eyes, the disorder that her haste had made
affected O'Neil strangely. He stared at her, bewildered, doubtful,
then steadied her and groped with his free hand for support. He could
feel her trembling wretchedly.

"You don't know. The bridge has never been tried. The ice is
battering at it, and that jam—if it doesn't burst—"

"But it will. It can't last much longer."

"It's rising—"

"To be sure, but the river will overflow the bank."

"Please!" she urged. "You can do no good here. I'm afraid."

He stared at her in the same incredulous bewilderment; some
impulse deep within him was struggling for expression, but he could
not find words to frame it. His eyes were oddly bright as he smiled at
her.

"Won't you go ashore?" she begged.

"I'll take you back, of course, but I want to stay and see—"

"Then—I'll stay."

"Eliza!" Her name burst from his lips in a tone that thrilled her,
but with it came a sudden uproar from the distant crowd, and the next
instant they saw that the ice-barrier was giving way. The pressure had
become irresistible. As the Salmon had risen the ice had risen also,
and now the narrow throat was belching its contents forth. The chaos
of up-ended bergs was being torn apart; over it and through it burst a
deluge which filled the valley with the roar of a mighty cataract.
Clouds of spray were in the air; broken masses were leaping and
somersaulting; high up on the shore were stranded floes and fragments,
left in the wake of the moving body. Onward it coursed, clashing and
grinding along the brittle face of the glacier; over the alder tops
beyond the bend they could see it moving faster and faster, like the
crest of a tidal wave. The surface of the river lowered swiftly
beneath the bridge; the huge white pans ground and milled, shouldered
aside by the iron-sheathed pillars of concrete.

"See! It's gone already. Once it clears a passageway we'll have no
more gorges, for the freshets are coming. The bridge didn't even
tremble—there wasn't a tremor, not a scratch!" Eliza looked up to
find O'Neil regarding her with an expression that set her heart
throbbing and her thoughts scattering. She clasped a huge, cold
bolt-head and clung to it desperately, for the upheaval in her soul
rivaled that which had just passed before her eyes. The bridge, the
river, the valley itself were gyrating slowly, dizzily.

"Eliza!" She did not answer. "Child!" O'Neil's voice was shaking.
"Why did you come to me? Why did you do this mad thing? I saw
something in your face that I can't believe—that I—can't think
possible. It—it gives me courage. If I don't speak quickly I'll
never dare. Is it—true? Dear girl, can it be? I'm so old—such a
poor thing—you couldn't possibly care, and yet, WHY DID YOU COME?"
The words were torn from him; he was gripped and shaken by a powerful
emotion.

She tried to answer, but her lips were soundless. She closed her
eyes, and Murray saw that she was whiter than the foam far beneath.
He stared into the colorless face upturned to his until her eyelids
fluttered open and she managed to voice the words that clung in her
throat.

"I've always—loved you like this."

He gave a cry, like that of a starving man; she felt herself drawn
against him. But now he, too, was speechless; he could only press her
close while his mind went groping for words to express that joy which
was as yet unbelievable and stunning.

"Couldn't you see?" she asked, breathlessly.

He shook his head. "I'm such a dreamer. I'm afraid it—can't be
true. I'm afraid you'll go away and—leave me. You won't ever— will
you, Eliza? I couldn't stand that." Then fresh realization of the
truth swept over him; they clung to each other, drunk with ecstasy,
senseless of their surroundings.

"I thought you cared for Natalie," she said, softly, after a
while.

"It was always you."

"Always?"

"Always!"

She turned her lips to his, and lifted her entwining arms.

The breakfast-gong had called the men away before the two figures
far out upon the bridge picked their way slowly to the shore. The
Salmon was still flooded with hurrying masses of ice, as it would
continue to be for several days, but it was running free; the channel
in front of the glacier was open.

Blaine was the first to shake O'Neil's hand, for the members of
Murray's crew held aloof in some embarrassment.

"It's a perfect piece of work," said he. "I congratulate you."

The others echoed his sentiments faintly, hesitatingly, for they
were abashed at what they saw in their chief's face and realized that
words were weak and meaningless.

Dan dared not trust himself to speak. He had many things to say to
his sister, but his throat ached miserably. Natalie restrained herself
only by the greatest effort.

It was Tom Slater who ended the awkward pause by grumbling,
sarcastically:

"If all the young lovers are safely ashore, maybe us old men who
built the bridge can go and get something to eat."

Murray smiled at the girl beside him.

"I'm afraid they've guessed our secret, dear."

"Secret!" Slater rolled his eyes. "There ain't over a couple
thousand people beside us that saw you pop the question. I s'pose she
was out of breath and couldn't say no."

Eliza gasped and fled to her brother's arms.

"Sis! Poor—little Sis!" Dan cried, and two tears stole down his
brown cheeks. "Isn't this—just great?" Then the others burst into a
noisy expression of their gladness.

"Happy Tom" regarded them all pessimistically. "I feel bound to
warn you," he said at length, "that marriage is an awful gamble. It
ain't what it seems."

"It is!" Natalie declared. "It's better, and you know it."

"It turned out all right for me," Tom acknowledged, "because I got
the best woman in the world. But"—he eyed his chief accusingly—"I
went about it in a modest way; I didn't humiliate her in public."

He turned impatiently upon his companions, still pouring out their
babble of congratulations.

"Come along, can't you," he cried, "and leave 'em alone. I'm a
dyspeptic old married man, but I used to be young and affectionate,
like Murray. After breakfast I'm going to cable Mrs. Slater to come
and bring the kids with her and watch her bed-ridden, invalid husband
build the rest of this railroad. I'm getting chuck full of romance."

"It has been a miraculous morning for me," said Murray, after a
time, "and the greatest miracle is—you, dear."

"This is just the way the story ended in my book," Eliza told him
happily—"our book."